Legacy III
by ruth baulding
Summary: -continuation of Lineage AU- BOOK 3. A special Rim Patrol mission takes Obi-Wan and companions to the Republic's strife-fraught borders; encroaching chaos reveals itself on many fronts; a Dark cult long thought extinct reveals itself after a thousand year hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Oh come off it, Kenobi! What _possible_ objection can you harbor? This is the kind of opportunity that presents itself only once in a lifetime!"

Garen Muln – tall, dark, handsome, but regrettably not the _silent type _- threw up both hands in a dramatic gesture and winked broadly at Reeft Golodnyy, his seasoned accomplice and conspirator. The Dressalian padawan was also tall, though not dark or handsome, and certainly only less voluble in defense of the proposed plan because his mouth was full of _brobdig_ hash and steamed _torffli._

"Mmm- what he said," the latter of the pair mumbled.

Across the small refectory table, Obi-Wan demurely sprinkled salt onto his own supper. "Thank the Force for small mercies… I shan't have to resist the siren allure of _temptation _more than once."

"So you admit you're tempted!" Garen triumphantly concluded.

The young Knight raised a facetious brow. "Positively _concupiscent."_

"Look," his childhood friend wheedled, undeterred by the sarcasm, "It's your duty. The Republic _needs_ this; the Council won't let Reeft and I enroll without proper supervision; and you're both qualified and available. "

Obi-Wan squinted at him. "I thought Feld was going to play governess for you."

Reeft mournfully polished off his third helping and set his utensil down. "He makes a third, but Master Tinn said we needed _another_ full ranking Knight to complete the team. And if _you_ don't step up, Obi, it will be Torbb Bakk'ile – and she's got _no_ sense of humor."

"So I'm to be comedic relief?"

"No, no,no," the Dressalian hastened to amend his slip. "That's not what I mean. But think of it… you, me, Garen, Feld. Oh, and Zhoa, but she hardly counts – I mean she's a meter high and worships Feld like a Vetruvian sky-idol. Just us, out in the stars for _six standard,_ roving and rambling, adventure-"

"A Jedi craves not adventure."

"He can _live a little!"_ Garen scoffed. "I'm making it a personal quest to get Kenobi here drunk out of his gourd in the course of our deployment. How much you want to wager, Reefs?"

"Twenty dataries and my favorite dancing girl."

Obi-Wan choked on his next swallow and could not speak for several long seconds, a vulnerability his opponents pounced upon without remorse.

"You would be _senior_ member of the mission," Garen crooned. "Feld's technically just taking his padawan on a training trip. We would all call you _master."_

"Master Disaster," Reeft qualified.

"Sir Sanctimony, Lord Lecture, 33rd degree Grand High Poojam of Pedantry… whatever you fancy," Garen chortled.

Their victim narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "You can both kiss my masterly aaa- ah, Zhoa." Jedi reflexes saved him from causing scandal to the younger generation, which had chosen this exact moment to manifest itself with wide eyes, rosy cheeks, and bobbing headtails.

"Master Kenobi," Feld Spruu's petite Nautolan padawan intoned, making the senior member of the group a very respectful bow.

Obi-Wan raised supercilious brows at his companions over the top of her head, provoking a double eye roll.

The young apprentice squeezed herself in beside the young Knight without further ado, sliding along the bench until they were wedged in knee to knee. She set about the business of eating with unembarrassed verve.

Her mentor appeared a moment later, frivolously employing the Force to summon a chair over to the table's edge. He settled his lean, lanky blue frame into place with all the grace of a hunting colwar, flinging one extravagant lekku over a shoulder to prevent its entanglement with his own meal. "Good morning, Padawans," he grinned, addressing himself to the sulking pair upon his right-hand. "Have you been asking nicely, or have you already bungled the negotiations?"

Zhoa looked up from her vestri pudding with bright, curious eyes.

"We have bribed, wheedled, and threatened, but to no avail," Garen lamented.

The tall Twi"lek knight pulled a very convincing moue. "What? Obi-Nobi, you are shunning our incomparable company? Foolish decision!"

Obi-Wan snorted. "Who is the greater fool: the fool or the fool who follows him?"

Feld clutched at his heart. "I'm mortally wounded."

"Good; I shan't have to tolerate any more absurd caviling."

"What? That's _your _spe-cial-ity, my little friend. "

Zhoa started in on a silent giggling fit, clutching both green hands to her mouth and quivering in place.

Obi-Wan wagged a stern finger at his contemporary. "You do realize that _everything_ you do and say sets an example to your impressionable young student?"

But the Twi"Lek Knight only spread his hands apart helplessly. "I am a lost cause; all the more need for your rectitude and salutary moral influence."

But the plea fell on deaf ears. "Oh, I'm sure Torbb Bakk'ile will be an exemplary source of both."

All three young Jedi groaned.

* * *

"It's absolutely ludicrous," Obi-Wan groused, hefting one of the dojo's polished quarterstaves and giving it an experimental twirl. "You should have heard them."

Qui-Gon Jinn, already waiting patiently in the practice arena's center, leaned upon his own chosen weapon like a venerable sage's tall staff. "It is natural enough, I think; most senior padawans faced with the prospect of their first truly solo mission do feel some anticipatory excitement. And this opportunity enables them to meet that challenge with the fellowship of equals – it is a rare one, indeed."

His sparring partner finally selected a weapon that met his strident qualifications for weight and balance, then padded fluidly across the worn floorboards. "I wish them well. But why they need _me_ involved is a mystery beyond my ken."

The tall Jedi master fell into opening stance, posture supple and relaxed, the Force cascading in majestic falls about him, an invisible cataract foaming back into its own infinite river. "You missed out on the traditional preparation sequence for the Trials; far from begrudging your friends their trip, I would expect you to wholeheartedly join in the endeavor."

Obi-Wan faced off with him, three scant paces apart, staff at the ready. "I didn't _miss_ the solo phase," he scowled. "A year's exile in postapocalyptic desolation has a distinct pedagogical value."

The older man grimaced at his friend's wry humor. The hard truth cut too close to this satiric vein for comfort; Melida-Daan and its aftermath had been the harshest _possible_ ordeal any young Jedi should have to face. "I meant simply that you haven't been afforded a chance to travel the galaxy on your own yet. At your age, I would have been _eager_ to strike out and explore."

"You mean eager to escape Master Dooku's _ inspirational_ teaching style," his former apprentice observed, cagily.

Another grimace. "Well…. if that' s what it requires to push you out of the nest…." Qui-Gon spun his heavy staff threateningly, making the first lightning-quick strike.

A solid parry. Obi-Wan grinned in delight, welcoming the transition from wordplay into outright combative bliss. They clashed and whirled, the heavy wooden implements sending a flurry of sharp percussive echoes off the smooth walls, a martial rhythm punctuated with grunts of effort and an occasional bout of barking laughter.

And in the bruising cacophony of mock battle, the point of disputation was soon forgotten.

* * *

Zhoa Pleromata's slender shoulders slumped. "What's a _culturally indicative idiom?"_ she moaned. "I'll never be able to complete this assignment."

"Nonsense." Obi-Wan looked up from his own holo-book and peered over the girl's shoulder at her current coursework requirements. "It's not so abstruse as it sounds; simply think of a turn of phrase – a figure of speech that is unique to the people who coined it."

The Nautolan's forehead wrinkled in concentration for a moment. "Oh! I know – Master taught me one: _don't get your lekku in a twist._ That's Twi'lek and it means one should calm down."

He nodded. "Yes. Wookiees probably have a good many for which there is no Basic translation. Dugs say to _keep your feet off other people's property. _And Hutts refer to their bondmates as _slime of my slime._"

Zhoa giggled, rapidly entering these gems of wisdom into her datapad.

Obi-Wan warmed to the subject. "My personal favorite is the Togorian adage _home is where you hang your enemy's head."_

"What do Jedi say?" the girl asked, innocently.

He adopted his most venerable authoritarian tone. "_Focus, young padawan_!"

Zhoa's peals of amusement earned them both a wrathful glare from Jocasta Nu; they instantly subsided into studious quiet as the imposing Senior Archivist skimmed by the outside aisle, peering balefully into the small alcove with its dim lamp and comfortable chairs.

"Thank you for helping me, Master," the younger culprit whispered a few moments later. "You _are _coming with us to the Outer Rim, aren't you?"

He held up a hand.

"Please, Master Obi-Wan… it won't be the same without you, and Master Bakk'ile _scares_ me."

"_A Jedi faces her fears,"_ he retorted, pointedly taking up his volume again and refusing to entertain further debate on the topic.

Zhoa sighed theatrically and returned to slaving over her galactic cultures homework.

* * *

Bant was no mortal help, either.

"Why, of course you should go, Obi! It would do you a world of good."

"Bant." He emphasized his words with a terse, chopping gesture. "I have responsibilities. I have _scholarship_ to pursue. And Qui-Gon needs a younger mission partner. He's nearly _sixty."_

The Mon Cal was unimpressed. "Master Dooku is nearly _eighty_ and he seems to do admirably well without a full time certified nursing assistant."

They stopped at the edge of the artificial pond beneath the arboretum falls, where clouds of mist settled upon Bant's salmon-colored skin. She closed her opalescent eyes and relished the cool moisture, vestigial gills flaring in pleasure.

"Fine." Obi-Wan lifted a stray pebble from the path and held it suspended in midair above the rippling water's surface. "Qui-Gon needs a steadying influence."

But his companion was having none of it. "I'll bet he's already told you that he approves_."_

"That doesn't count… he just wants to convert the spare bedroom into a hothouse for tentacled kinetoflora, or some such nonsense."

A webbed hand rested on his sleeve. "Silly gundark… you just don't want to go solo."

A dismissive snort. "Six months of Garen and Reeft without respite or privacy? I'd hardly call that _solo."_

She ignored this feeble riposte. "You don't have a good argument – you know perfectly well that you can fulfill your duty to protect the Republic by joining this mission; your so-called scholarship is nothing but your usual eccentric intellectual hobbies; and it's not Qui-Gon who wants a steadying influence, it's _you._ You have abandonment issues."

The pebble dropped, splashing into the cold depths of the river. "I wasn't aware you were pursuing a specialization in _mind healing,"_ he answered, coldly.

Bant's globular eyes blinked once, patiently. "You've been a Knight for nearly two years," she pointed out, softly. "The Council would whole-heartedly approve your participation. And Master Yoda would be very pleased."

He exhaled sharply , venting pique into the cool vapor coiling around them. The falls thundered an endless _oommmmm_ of serenity. "I know."

"Well then?"

His mouth thinned, and a pensive line appeared between his brows. "It's just…. "

Water spilled over the ledge, a glass column twisting, sinuous and elusive, yet unbroken, the future's skein passing between the deft fingers of the Fates, the weavers of destiny. In that ever-flowing current, light scintillated, but shadows also darkly wound, things seeming to lurk beneath the glossy surface of the current. The thundering of the falls sounded endlessly, heavy – pregnant, even- with prophetic import, the smooth cascade shattering to broken foam and white, blinding oblivion upon the rocks below, the desolation of all things –

-one step over the brink, and a headlong plummet into the Ordained, the Foretold –

"Obi?"

Vision dissolved again into settling mist, a diaspora of crystalline droplets, the weight of destiny atomized into disparate moments, the present, the now, the only reality. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the tiny sandpaper scratch of new beard, and exhaled slowly this time, deliberately rooting himself back in the placid familiarity of the scene, the salt-tang scent of Bant, the warmth of her presence in the Force. "I'm not ready," he insisted, though before what judge he made this futile appeal he could not say.

* * *

"A complete waste of time," Dooku averred. "I told the Council as much. This _patrol_ system … a flimsy buttress against overburdened levees; the floods of barbarity _will_ inevitably overwhelm our borders, unless the true problem is addressed. Corruption in the Core – here on Coruscant, in the heart of the Republic: these are the root causes of unrest in the Rims. The Order can squander its best talent peacekeeping on the far edges of this civilization, but nothing lasting will come of it."

Obi-Wan folded his hands into opposite sleeves. "You would counsel me not to go, then."

The silver haired Sentinel unsealed the clasps on an Archives stasis pod and opened the lid. "Of course not. Your gifts and skills are needed elsewhere than upon a such a quixotic quest… the _Knights_ errant, wandering abroad in search of the downtrodden and oppressed." A dry chuckle. "We have a _war_ to fight, my young friend. Darkness gathers on the horizon."

He withdrew an antique sword, forged of metal, and turned the curious object in his hands. "You remember this, of course."

"Yes."

"I have spent some long days researching its origins and manufacture, and I have come to one, rather startling, conclusion." A fey light glinted in Dooku's grey eyes. "Behold."

A swift surge of the Force, and the blade parted from the hilt, leaving each piece separate in the Jedi master's hands. "Ahhh…. As I thought."

His young companion frowned. "Is it defective?

"No, no, the forged blade is nothing but a _disguise…_ or else a ceremonial sheath. " He dropped the stretch of hammered iron back into its container, diffidently. "This- this is what fascinates me." He turned the hilt in his hand and then smiled, lips curling in a feral and deadly satisfaction. "Ah, yes."

With a dissonant snap and hiss, a second blade leapt from the hilt – a thing _black_ and lightless, pulsing with a low bass note, a menacing growl a full octave below that of a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan's brows shot up. "What _is_ that?"

The Sentinel brandished the strange weapon, its song an portentous chorus, deep and weirdly textured, grating upon the nerves. "This," he breathed, a kind of curdled reverence in his voice, "is a _darksaber."_

"I've never seen one before."

Dooku snapped the blade back into its hilt. ""I shall speak to Jocasta personally. This treasure needs to be interred in the restricted vaults, with the holocrons."

The young Knight watched as he packed the bizarre artifact back into its preservation chamber and slotted the box in place among the countless other historical objects in the storage level. A droid hovered solicitously at the aisle's end.

Dooku swept down the corridor, Obi-Wan at his heels. "Regarding the matter of our previous discussion, no. I should certainly not waste my time upon it, were I you. Heed my words."

"Thank you, Master. Your perspective always lends insight."

"I should think so."

They parted ways at the lift to the upper levels, Dooku striding off intent upon his own private undertaking, and Obi-Wan making his way between the watchful gauntlet of the Lost with an unexpectedly lighter step.

He had made up his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

They sat, drenched in dawn's first unbridled glory, a second and invisible nimbus encircling them in the Force's unitary splendor. Qui-Gon preferred communion with the Living Force, but time and long companionship had conspired to bend his predilections just a courteous margin toward this other, more abstract and strangely bracing form of _centering._ Obi-Wan led, and he followed, motionless yet moving, feeling as always a sense of trespass upon ground unsullied even by the tread of angels. The grandeur and scope of unifying vision threatened as always to leave him breathless, incapacitated upon some barren, perfect shore, one scoured to ruthless perfection – but thus, yoked in a tandem contemplation, the glassy seas upon that supernal edge between consciousness and _no self_ seemed less opaque, more scintillating. In the Force, in the imaginal boundary weaving finite minds into the infinite, his own long stride left a double trail of steady, stately prints upon the white sand while his padawan cavorted and spun ahead, tracing a joyful skittering path across the endless stretch, fearless of the encroaching tide, leaping and tumbling_ ataru_ style like the dancing waves themselves.

The Jedi master roused himself from deep meditation first, and risked a surreptitious examination of his youngest scion. Legs crossed in lotus position, hands loose and open upon his knees, face bathed in full morning radiance from the balcony doors to the left, Obi-Wan presented a flawless tableau of Jedi serenity, a far cry from the frolicsome _child_ of the shared vision. It had been a long time since Qui-Gon had _seen _his former apprentice in the guise of a ten year old initiate, but he understood that the Force showed what facet best reflected meaning to the beholder, that the past indwelled the present and manifested as Inner and the outer reality hung always in delicate contrapuntal balance; ever elusive, truth was only to be found in the _living_ and _evolving_ journey between the two realms. He reached through the omnipresent plenum, back into the trance's depths, and gently _pushed _ the youngling Obi-Wan into the tumbling surf. His benign malfeasance provoked a gasping yelp of surprise on one plane and a small grunt and twitch on the other, as spirit and matter collapsed back into one, the vision peremptorily usurped by the present moment.

"There's no need to be _rude,"_ the young Knight muttered, opening his own eyes. He squinted in the bright glare pouring through the transparent doors, then waved a hand to adjust the blinds.

Qui-Gon chuckled. "It's time to be getting on with the day, I think."

His former apprentice raised a brow. "I suppose I should be grateful you don't proclaim the same thing _before_ dawn anymore."

"Oh, I would– but, alas, the foremost recipient of said wisdom has issued a ban on the forcible curtailment of sloth."

"He's wise," the young Jedi snorted. The ban in question had been in place nearly a year; under its severe auspices no cheerful salutations or admonitions to "enjoy the glory of the living Force" were to be issued at any time antecedent to Obi-Wan's first cup of tea, and certainly _never_ before sunrise. Initially Qui-Gon had chafed against the stricture, enamored as he had been in time past of_ rousting_ his apprentice from bed with a brusque command and a brisk Force-aided confiscation of pillows and blanket – but time and experience had convinced him that the concession was one necessary to preserve domestic peace under the new conditions of _collegiality._

"So," the Jedi master inquired, cutting straight to the point of his curiosity. "Have you reached a decision yet?"

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, as though bracing for a plunge. "Yes."

The tall man's brows rose, expectant.

"I'm going to join the patrol mission. With Garen and Feld and Reeft. I submitted my request last evening and the Council has already confirmed the assignment."

A nod of approval. "The experience will be highly beneficial – for all parties involved." An amused hesitation. "Except possibly Zhoa. Force preserve the poor girl."

Obi-Wan brushed this aside. "You exposed me to far worse company as a padawan… she'll survive to tell the tale."

"Embellish it, more likely." The Jedi master's eyes twinkled. "And when may I expect to assume the undeserved blessing of complete peace and quiet?"

"Well." The younger man dipped his head, somewhat apologetically. "This afternoon, actually."

If there was something of _alarm_ in Qui-Gon's Force signature, it did not register upon his face. He merely nodded again, absorbing the news as placidly as ever.

The affectation of indifference did not fool his young counterpart. "I'm sorry… but abrupt departures _are _rather in fashion at the moment…"

His jest fell slightly flat, levity ringing hollow in the cool morning air.

"It isn't as though I'm returning to the Force, Master. "

Qui-Gon forced a small smile. "Of course not. And I am sure we will be in comm contact periodically."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Well, then."

"You'd best pack and make arrangements…. I shall see you off at the docking pad later."

Having thus expressed a plethora of inexpressible and difficult truths, they stood, made each other a bow of mutual respect, and then parted ways.

* * *

"Obi-Wan. Speak with you, I would."

Arrested in mid-stride by the gravelly cadence of that voice – of the _authority_ behind those rasping syllables – the young Knight turned instantly, cloak hem skirling about his heels as he bent forward in a deep obeisance.

"Hm, hm, hm." Master Yoda grunted in rhythm with his halting shuffle across the concourse. "What's this, hmm?" he snorted, rapping his gnarled cane against Obi-Wan's left shin. "Like youngling caught in flagrante, are you. So intimidating am I?"

A delicate ripple of humor passed between them, a moth's shuddering flight. "…Yes, Master."

The oldest living Jedi chortled to himself, pointed ears tweaking upward in delight. "Wise you grow," he decided, poking the gimer stick into his interlocutor's toe. "Part from us, you do, soon."

"Yes… our transport is scheduled for-"

"Know this I do!" the Grand Master snuffed, waving a triple-clawed hand. "Speak now, we will. Come."

He led the way down the corridor, in quite the opposite direction Obi-Wan had been headed, cane tapping imperiously against the marble inlaid floor. They turned into an open lecture hall and passed down the hushed central aisle. "Sit, sit."

They settled upon the lowest bench in the tier, Yoda squirming and grunting his way into place upon his chosen perch , cane resting across his bent knees. "Hm. Good. Ache, my joints do."

Everybody knew that Ben To Li had been pestering the ancient one for _decades_ about a hover-chair, but Obi-Wan was not about to jump into a pitched battle between two such titanic principalities in the Temple's unofficial pantheon. Still, he could not _quite_ hold his peace. "Qui-Gon uses _anther wort_ balm for that, Master."

A loud snort. "_Child_ is Qui-Gon Jinn. When eight hundred he reaches, help his aching bones _liniment_ will not."

"Oh, _anther wort_ isn't an analgesic… it's a homeopathic remedy for irritable mood."

The gimer stick caught him across the knee-cap, with an echoing crack, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain.

Old Yoda cackled gleefully, crenellated skull bobbing up and down as he wheezed and chuckled.

Discreetly rubbing at his insulted joint, Obi-Wan opted for a change of topic. "You wished to speak with me, Master?"

The ancient Jedi's whiplash transition to sobriety would have been disquieting to one less familiar with his eccentricities of manner. "On journey to Outer Rim, you depart. Tell me: find what, do you think you will?"

"Oh, trouble, I'm sure," came the airy reply.

But Yoda pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at this glib prognostication. "Doubt it not, do I. But trouble can you find anywhere, young one. In Temple itself, have you hunted it down. SO far, you need not travel to discover it."

Obi-Wan frowned. "I spoke in jest, Master – obviously, the mission serves the needs of the Republic-"

"No!" The cane's twisted haft skimmed perilously close to his shoulder as the ancient Jedi gestured emphatically. "Many needs , has the Republic. Many needs." A keen-edged silence. "Why go on quest far afield? Looking for something, are you, Obi-Wan."

He was? "With respect, I do not think -"

A hearty snort. "Think not. _Feel." _The stick rose again, softly, to prod at his chest. "Visions has the Force granted you, lately, hm? Dreams?"

"Not many; and none I should be tempted to _pursue,_ if that's what you mean." He shivered involuntarily, recalling the cold and ominous premonitions visited upon him by the arboretum falls, that looming sense of destiny, of doom's insistent tolling.

Yoda's gimlet eyes slid sideways, their regard the searing touch of a 'saber. "Darkness you have seen. Danger."

His fingers curled inward, tightening into fists. The ancient one had felt it too, the seismic shifting of the worlds' foundations, that vertiginous _tipping, tipping, teetering_ over some invisible fulcrum-point. "I-"

"Gathering at margins of galaxy, is the Shroud."

He did not want to hear this. "I don't-"

"Feel it you do, Obi-Wan. And ever have you run t_oward_ danger."

It was true; how often had Qui-Gon chided him for that foolhardy propensity, how often Dooku praised its value? A dreadful thought formed in his mind, cold and crystalline, falling like sharp hail down his spine and into his viscera. "You think I am …_seeking_ Darkness?" Such arrogance was beyond reprehensible. And he was not – would never be- a Shadow.

The old one's ears perked upward. "Darkness? No… seeking _destiny,_ you are."

_Tipping, tipping, teetering…_

To his utter astonishment, a hoary three-fingered hand settled upon his knee, exerting a strong pressure. "Perhaps find it, you will, hmm?"

The diminutive master peered at him one last time, ballasted amid the tempestuous sea by eight hundred some years' accrued wisdom and experience, then hopped lightly down to the floor without a trace of arthritic stiffness.

"May the Force be with you," he grunted, enigmatically, and stumped his way out again, his blessing punctuated by the fading clack of the gimer stick.

Obi-Wan sat in the dim chamber for many more long minutes, vainly striving to _feel, not think,_ and wondering vaguely whether he had ever really had a choice in the matter at all.

* * *

"What's this?"

Qui-Gon thrust the bundle of threadbare cloth into his arms, and rocked back on his heels. "A parting gift, of sorts. Though I would rather you considered it a loan."

Obi-Wan's brows lifted. "Your old _duster?"_

"It hails from my own first properly solo mission. I thought it might bring you… luck."

_There is no such thing as luck._

A sarcastic snort. "So I'm to parade about the Outer Rim in the guise of a scurrilous vagabond?"

The tall man was unruffled by the jibe. "Such an appearance is a useful social currency in such places, do not forget. You may find it expedient to veil your true identity."

Behind them, the transport droids had finished fueling and prepping the small shuttle that would bear them to the Jedi outpost near Baroonda Minor, where they would rendezvous with Saesee Tinn for briefing and mission-specific tech training.

"I shall cherish it always," Obi-Wan assured the older man, tucking the roll of weathered quickweave under one arm. "And wear it as a badge of ancient and honorable lineage."

_A Jedi has no place, no history, no self._

Zhoa Pleromata's wildly adorned head popped out of the shuttle's open hatchway. "Are you coming, Master Obi-Wan?"

"Just a moment."

The youngling disappeared again in a whirl of short green headtails and cream tunics.

"There is, of course, the obligatory impartation of wisdom," Qui-Gon added, with a wistful undertone.

"Pontificate at will, Master; I shan't impede your eloquence with immoderate attention to detail."

A breath of laughter. "Brat. Several thousand parsecs is not nearly far enough."

_Size matters not; distance matters not; the Force binds all things together._

"Well? Where is my valedictory speech?"

The shuttle was released from its magnetic anchors and displayed all-ready lights along the retracted starboard wing.

The Jedi master ticked off his points as though the advice had been formulated and rehearsed. "Look for enemies in high places and allies in low ones; remember that a solution will always present itself; trust instinct above reason and the Force above either; never attempt mind influence on a Hutt, never start a fight with a Dug, and never underestimate greed as a motivating power for any sentient; keep your focus in the present moment where it belongs; faced with two mutually exclusive options, choose patience; and above all: do _not_ get yourself killed."

_Luminous beings are we, not this gross matter._

"Sound counsel, I would say."

They lifted their chins and crossed their arms, each unconsciously mirroring the other's posture.

"I should go."

"Yes."

"I'm sure the Council will receive frequent updates on our status."

"Yes."

"If there is a comm channel with a secure frequency…"

"Yes."

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

"Get those servos in gear, Kenobi!" Feld Spruu's sonorous voice hollered form inside the shuttle's hull.

Obi-Wan grimaced. "Well."

"Indeed." The tall man laid a hand on his former padawan's shoulder. "May the Force be with you."

"And you. "

Qui-Gon stood within the sheltering cave of the hangar bay long after the transport had dwindled into Coruscant's frenetic sky, leaving only the vapid echo of thrusters and a pale and fading con-trail in its wake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Qui-Gon: you'll be pleased to know we've managed to arrive in one piece, though I shan't attribute our good fortune to Garen's piloting skill. I think I'd rather go sky-jumping than strap myself into a cockpit beside him again. The outpost here is not what I thought. The space station is built inside a blasted out asteroid which some enterprising soul towed into orbit around the gas giant. The mineral deposits inside the asteroid purportedly generate sufficient thermonuclear energy to sustain the station's power needs….so, in essence, we are a gigantic mynock leeching off a chunk of radioactive garbage. Charming._

_Reeft, however, assures me that the commissary and cafeteria will prove far more civilized, though I have yet to verify his claim. And the sleeping arrangements have already sparked controversy. There was some miscommunication regarding numbers; the droid in charge of barracks and provisions assigned us two small rooms with a pair of bunks each. Space is rather limited, so there is little chance of amending the error. One of us will be emulating the asceticism of the early sages, that much is clear; _ _and I say, to the blazes with diplomacy. I'm claiming seniority _and _a proper bed. _

_We're due to the briefing session in five minutes standard. I hope this finds you well, and may the Force be with you._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

The conference chamber was no larger than a typical wardroom aboard a starcruiser; the twenty-odd members of the new Republic Rim patrol – comprised of three active teams and a small crew of engineering hands charged with maintaining communications and upkeeping the dozen brand-new Lancet hyperdrive-ring compatible starfighters assigned to the mission- filed into the compact space, filling the available seats to overflowing.

"May I sit next to you?" Zhoa Pleromata politely inquired, looking hopefully up into Obi-Wan's face.

To either side, Service Corps members and a pair of engineers hastily reshuffled their own seats, making room for the foursome of cloaked newcomers and their tiny Nautolan consort.

Feld laid a long blue hand upon his apprentice's shoulder. "There's not much room, Zhoa," he murmured, taking up position with a small bow of thanks to the woman on his right. "You can sit at my feet, as is proper, eh?"

The padawan's round pearlescent eyes blinked once, mournfully, but the girl obeyed without undue sulking, taking up station on the floor between Feld's tall boots, tiny learner's braid swinging as her head swiveled this way and that, taking in the company.

Obi-Wan slid in beside Feld, adjusting his cloak's long sleeves as he sat. There were besides his own acquaintances from the Temple, two older Jedi who had taken a leave from extended journey missions in the surrounding sectors to join this complement of patrollers, four seasoned Service Corps veterans to accompany them, five engineers, two communications specialists, and a director of facilities, presumably in charge of the outpost station itself. Even as he identified each of these new colleagues by uniform insignia or bright Force presence, a striking latecomer made her entrance.

"Rancor bollocks," Reeft muttered, nudging Obi-Wan in the back with one knee. "She found a way to join the mission after all."

Garen groaned. "Just when we might have had some fun."

"Who's that, Master?" Zhoa peeped.

"_That,"_Feld replied, lekku quivering irritably, "Is Knight Torbb Bakk'ile, the only living Jedi to be wound more tightly than Obi-Nobi here."

The Nautolan clutched at Feld's cloak hem and tracked the newcomer's progress across the crowded room with huge, gleaming black eyes. The gargantuan human woman stood proud above every other figure in the room, head entirely shaved but for a single dramatic queue at the apex of her skull, her synth-leather tabards flaring out slightly over either shoulder, giving her the appearance of a Ungaali _shaak_ she-oxen ready to charge. A floor-length cassock obscured the massive columns of her legs, but the knotted hands that peeped from beneath her dark sleeves could easily have closed round the fattest muja fruit ever grown. Her burnished lightsaber hilt slapped harshly against her thigh as she shouldered her way to the front and took up position leaning against a wall, dark eyes flitting raptor-like over the entire assembly, a frank and inscrutable estimation of merit and fault.

"Close your mouth, little one," Feld advised his gaping protégé.

Garen leaned forward to whisper in his friend's ear. "Admit it, Kenobi; if you weren't a Jedi, you would fancy her. She's your _type."_

Reeft came round the other side to add his two-credits' worth. "She's like Tachi on steroids."

"Think she's half-Wookiee?" Garen mused, in a confidential undertone.

"Why don't you ask her?" Obi-Wan grumbled, one eyebrow creeping upward in vexation.

"Never importune a woman who can kill you with her bare hands." Reeft's lined face broke into a wicked grin. "Unless you like it rough."

Their friend turned halfway round in his seat. "If you two sophomoric buffoons are _quite_ finished?"

Garen feigned contrition, throwing up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Forgive me, oh my master…. Are you certain?" he added, addressing Feld. "About which one is more tightly wound, I mean?"

The Twi'Lek only threw his head back and guffawed richly, attracting the disdainful notice of the imposing person currently under discussion.

Obi-Wan merely folded his arms and turned his attention back to center, anticipating the subsequent call to order. A moment later, Jedi Master Saesee Tinn swept through the hatchway, dark cloak a sharp contrast to his sallow Iktotchi complexion, face framed by the double downward sweep of ridged cranial horns, a natural adornment whimsically evocative of the defensive-guard opening stance for _jar kai_ tandem saber dueling.

Certainly the Councilman's stern gaze commanded instant sobriety and silence.

"You all know why we are here," he began, without preliminary, taking up position at the central podium. A wave of his hand dimmed the lights; a ceiling mounted holoprojector cast a moving astro-map into the darkened vault overhead. "The Jedi Order, and its ancillary divisions, "- a short nod at the Service Corps emissaries- "exist to safeguard peace and justice within the Republic's boundaries. Of late we have seen a striking dissolution of law and Order in the far-flung sectors closest to those borders. Piracy, the incursion of foreign war parties from Togoria and Paxel, an upsurge in crime syndicate activity including smuggling, the formation of illegal planetary militia, and the discovery of a covert terrorist political conspiracy styling itself New Dawn are among the causes for this slide into chaos. The Council has therefore urged the Supreme Chancellor to commission a specialized brigade to actively patrol these regions, rather than waiting for aid requests from specific systems.

"Our operation will consist of four squadrons, each with its own team leader and independent mission objectives. These squadrons will report continuously to the outpost communications center here, and receive dispatch transmissions in turn. Also on base will be our mechanical team, who will keep the vehicles and equipment in peak condition. "He paused, a tiny smile momentarily lightening the dour set of his strongly carved features. "The Republic has allocated to this cause twelve newly refurbished external hyperdrive Lancet starfighters."

Garen whistled softly between his teeth, the Force spiking with the unbridled joy of a toddler let loose in a confectioner's shop.

"Throw money at the problem and hope it goes away," Reeft cynically remarked.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. A starfighter was…. a tricky piece of machinery. And he hated flying anyhow.

"Our first task is therefore the completion of an intensive pilot training program for these new vessels; every active team member must be competent in flight operation, technical troubleshooting, weapons systems, and of course the astro-droid interface matrix."

"Wonderful," Obi-Wan muttered. Flying _and_ droids. How could the current prospect possibly be rendered more enticing?

"Alpha session will commence at five hundred hours tomorrow morning," the Iktotchi master declared.

* * *

"Told you the food would be fair compensation," Reeft observed, wagging a spoon in his dining partner's face. "Balance in all things."

Obi-Wan sardonically eyed his friend's immoderate portion , but decided he was too weary to dispense any trenchant insight wisdom on the topic.

Beside him, Zhoa yawned over her own meal, tips of her headtails nearly drooping into the scraps of stew and bread upon her serving tray.

"Easy, young one; I'm not carrying you back to quarters," Feld warned.

Garen pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs beneath the small plastoid mess hall table. "Speaking of quarters… we've a dilemma yet to resolve."

Reeft steepled his fingers in an irreverent mimicry of Master Windu's favored _thinking_ posture. "Suggestions?"

"I can sleep on the floor," Zhoa brightly volunteered. "I don't mind."

"No," all four of her companions retorted, without hesitation.

Feld chuckled. "Perhaps we should procure some chance cubes, eh?"

This absurd idea was met with several scoffing protestations; nothing but trouble could come of four Force-sensitives playing a game of random chance, as it required great finesse and control _not_ to influence the dice, at least subliminally. There were good reasons Jedi were never welcome in gambling parlors.

"Sabaac," Garen offered. "I've got a deck tucked away in my bag."

"No ho ho," the Twi'Lek Knight demurred. "Obi-Nobi will trounce us all. He has studied dark arts at the feet of Master Jinn, and cheats like a Hutt."

"There's no need for flattery."

Feld slapped his shoulder playfully. "Zhoa and I will take one cabin; you three settle matters like gentlemen, eh?"

But Reeft, who was the youngest by a margin of months, wasn't having it. "Not the prerogatives of _seniority," _ he moaned.

"Wait – I've a better notion," Garen assuaged his fears. "Reefs, you and I will take the other cabin. Kenobi here can go seek out loftier company, in keeping with his exalted rank. " He smirked. "Torbb Bakk'ile could probably use a bunkmate."

Feld Spruu nearly choked n his tea. "Zhoa," he wheezed, "Off you go. I'll join you shortly."

"I really don't mind the floor, Master," the exhausted Nautolan mumbled. "I really think Master Torbb is too _big_ to share a bunk," she added, forehead contracting in a series of delicate wrinkles.

"Never mind that. Scoot off."

She bowed to them all, weaving on her feet, and stumbled away, small boots dragging down the adjacent corridor. No sooner had she disappeared than they all burst into unbecoming laughter.

Feld thrust a blue finger under Garen's nose. "Corrupt my innocent padawan, Muln, and I shall _mince_ you into bite sized _pieces." _ His white smile was fierce, edged with slightly pointed teeth.

The malefactor dipped his head, looking suitably chastised. "I beg your pardon, Master… I intended no impropriety." He paused, mouth twitching. "And Obi-Wan here isn't _capable_ of any, so…"

"_Don't_ make me demonstrate my capabilities, Garen."

Reeft threw up both hands in front of his creased face. "Oh! My eyes!"

"That's it." Ob-Wan stood, upon the tatters of his dignity. "I'll leave you _padawans_ to seek your own enlightenment. Until fifth hour, then." He bowed to Feld and fixed the pair of sniggering reprobates with one last withering look before sauntering toward the door.

"But where will you sleep?" Feld called out merrily after him.

He glanced over one cloaked shoulder, brows rising in a bland arch. "With Torbb Bakk'ile, of course."

The foregoing mortification was well worth the payoff he reaped in gasped and spluttering shock at this blithe declaration. Smiling faintly, he headed down the corridor for the lift tube, and left the flabbergasted convocation to sort it out for themselves.

* * *

Knight Bakk'ile was a pragmatic sort.

"Peace, brother," she said, waving him inside with one enormous hand after hearing his concisely worded request.

"Thank you." He returned the courtesy with a bow.

Jedi were a society focused of necessity on _luminous spirit,_ and studiously indifferent to _gross matter,_ a peculiarity of perspective that meant they were, on the whole, gender blind among themselves. Or at least, ideally so. Younglings in the crèche were not segregated; missions often demanded a punishing degree of familiarity at close quarters; no ranking Knight would so much as blink at the practical arrangement.

"I'm frankly surprised you choose to keep such…. puerile company," Torbb remarked, studying him intently. She towered a good half meter above him, evoking dim memories of a displeased crèche mistress handing down sentence for some childish prank.

"Appearances can be deceiving," he replied. "All three are honorable men and dedicated Jedi."

Bemusement transformed the enormous knight's features, melting stern lines into hastily scribed dubiety."If you say so."

There was only a miniscule private fresher attached to the cabin; by the time he had taken his turn, Torbb had blacked out the illuminators and was at repose upon her own bunk, large stockinged feet protruding past its bottom edge.

He left boots, belt and outer tunic in a tidy pile, tucked his 'saber under the pillow, and twitched the single thermal sheet into place with a frivolous use of the Force. Inhale, exhale, release.

Problem solved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Good morning. Or is it night there? I must say, I have derived great amusement from your accounts of life at the Baroonda outpost; I will not dare intimate that such hardships might be salutary, as I am sure you have already grasped this deep wisdom for yourself. All the same, you have my condolences regarding the piloting program; I should not wish to be 'incarcerated in a flimsy carnival rocket' either – but that is where the prerogatives of age prove useful._

_I will be offworld the next three days, as there is another brouhaha stirring on Chandrila. The Grand High Matriarch especially requested our presence again, and I sensed a certain degree of disappointment from the vestal priestesses when they heard that my younger partner was unavailable. I shall of course convey your deepest regrets. _

_By the way, yesterday Master Dooku mentioned as an aside that he had strongly advised you not to waste your time upon the Rim patrol mission. He attributes your obdurate dismissal of his opinion to my corrupting influence; I have not been honored by such a compliment in many a long year. However, I should not be lax about practicing my _kata, _were _ _I you - he will undoubtedly wish to have your hide in the dojo at your next possible convenience._

_Bant sends her fond regards. May the Force keep you, my young friend._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

Saesee Tinn paced across the hangar deck, hands clasped behind his back, deepset yellow eyes raking over the assembled company. "Today," he announced, "We will introduce the most essential facet of the ship's operating system. Astromech navigators are the cerebral cortex of these vessels; in order to minimize the onboard computer's liability in battle and to maximize the AI interface potential, the droid unit carries eighty percent of the navigational and high-performance functions within its own cyber-net. This means the starfighter, sans R-unit, is little more than a racing pod with an extremely powerful drive capacity. To _really_ fly, you must fly tandem with a droid copilot."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. They had spent four days taking apart and reassembling every component of the ships' basic systems, until Master Tinn had deemed them capable of what he termed "basic troubleshooting." Another two days had been devoted to basic helm-handling skills, weapons practice, orbital maneuvers and simulated atmospheric flight in the nearby gas giant's stratosphere. They had not yet used the hyperdrive rings, floating on grav-dockets not far outside the station itself, though he had anticipated being shown the ropes soon. And now…. droids.

On Feld's other side, Zhoa bounced up and down on her toes. "Oh…. _adorable!"_ she breathed, as the first of twelve assorted squat cylindrical astromechs rolled onto the polished deck, escorted by the patrol's ground crew and comm experts.

The child was _delusional._

"Can we have the green one, Master?' she whispered.

The Twi'Lek knight laid a restraining hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "Focus, Zhoa."

When the navigators had been duly introduced, the Iktotchi Jedi continued his brusque explication. "Since each unit will key its response motivators to the individual vocal commands of its assigned pilot, and will calibrate its comm transponder to the other three units in each squadron, you will need to take some time to familiarize yourself with your copilot. Also, we shall at this time break into individual squadrons with designated team leaders."

Garen rubbed his hands together. "Excellent."

Saesee Tinn peered out over the company. "Home Squadron will remain on-base, and consists of our engineering crew and communications officers. They are to be considered honored equals in this enterprise. Heliost Squadron I shall command myself. Knight Juugal, Yerm Mirqax, and Ish'kthtu shall accompany me." He encompassed two Service Corps members and his fellow Jedi in a wide sweep of his hand. "Pharx Ablee, Najool Spate, and Arlo Berkannt will comprise Hawkbat Squadron, headed by Torbb Bakk'ile."

The towering Knight inclined her head, long queue swinging over one vast shoulder. Her assigned companions shifted into a loose knot at her side.

The Iktotchi hesitated, then fixed the remaining five recruits with a darkly amused gaze. "And here we have Hartstagg Squadron," he declared, the tiniest quirk lifting one side of his thin mouth. "Since Knight Spruu has requested freedom to focus upon his padawan's training, their team leader shall be Knight Kenobi."

Reeft's jaw dropped.

"At ease, Hartstagg Three," the newly appointed squadron chief smirked.

* * *

RG53 turned out to have a very _nuanced_ view of the duties and obligations pertinent to co-pilotship. In fact, the blasted thing seemed incapable of processing the "co-" portion of that august title.

Obi-Wan frowned over the translator screen's contents for the umpteenth time during this very long morning. "No, we are _not_ descending to the surface. In fact, there _is_ no surface, properly speaking, so the very idea is absurd."

He laid on a bit more speed, because velocity was one of the few functions left entirely on manual override. Normally he did not savor the adrenal surge provoked by reckless acceleration, but he was swiftly discovering that when yoked to an impertinent back-seat driver, as it were, the very fact of _control_ rendered otherwise unpalatable experiences _delectable._

Focus determined reality.

He flicked his gaze down to the interface again, and smiled thinly. "No, I don't think it's ill advised."

It was positively _foolhardy._ And RG53 did not like it, more to the point. He plunged a bit lower, into the thicker gas layers swirling churlishly a thousand meters below their assigned flight path.

The translator lit up with a long-winded protest, one detailing all the safety protocols he had just violated.

Obi-Wan's brows lifted, the Force sparking with combative glee. Time to show the insolent cyber-wretch _who_ was the master. He flipped the lightweight craft upside down, then executed a tight loop, _ataru_ style, accelerating out of the curve _just_ enough to strain the compensators. G force pressed him back into the cockpit acceleration seat, and the pressure differential created a ragged contrail of pink and blue behind the Lancet's thruster array.

His astromech spouted a stream of indignant gibberish and a squealing imprecation or two.

Bottom lip caught between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration, he tore the rattling Lancet through a shrieking corkscrew dive, pulling up at the last moment before the hull deflectors shorted out in a cataclysmic blaze, then streaked upward again on full thrusters, sending the droid's rotating head into a dizzying whirl.

The translator was a solid block of scrolling aurebesh, illegibly dense text flickering across the screen.

They burst into clear space in a glorious ion shower and jagged wildly back to the outpost, RG53 wailing its head off the entire way.

Feld Spruu's rich baritone came over the ship-to-ship comm. A moment later. "Whoa there, Obi-Nobi…. What in the name of the Force are you _doing?"_

Hartstagg Alpha flashed a grin in the privacy of his cockpit. "Putting the co- back in copilot."

"What's that mean, Master?" the Nautolan padawan's voice peeped a moment later.

"Never you mind, Zhoa."

"Hartstagg Squadron, return to hangar."

The other three fighters confirmed the order, appearing on sensors one after another. Obi-Wan eased his ship through the maglev barrier and set her down on landing prongs, aware only after the fact that his heart was racing at a breakneck pace, his back and chest drenched with cold perspiration. "I hate flying," he muttered, releasing a long calming breath, waiting for his pulse to normalize.

The astromech whistled a demure apology for poor service, and uploaded the status report from the diagnostic scan.

"Oh dear." His abusive droid-taming technique was going to cost someone a full afternoon's repair and tune-up labor. Hopefully the mech crew did not keep some secret tabulation of demerits.

He released the canopy and clambered over the Lancet's low profile wing to find Garen and Reeft already waiting on deck. "What are you staring at?"

The Dressalian's grooved face rumpled in astonishment. "What was _that_ all about?"

"Just establishing pecking order in the ranks." He crossed his arms, hoping the slight wobble in his knees was not apparent to a casual observer. It was good to have his boots back on solid ground.

* * *

They sat in a conspiratorial circle, almost knee to knee, upon the deck of Saesee Tinn's small cabin, while the Iktotchi master solemnly handed round tea, brewed in the standard issue metallic mess hall cups. Obi-Wan nodded his thanks and hid his smile behind a first cautious sip, banishing the insistent image of younglings in the crèche gathered round to play at some whimsical pastime.

"There is knowledge to be imparted," the horned Jedi intoned, with almost funerary solemnity. "Now is the time."

To his right, Torbb Bakk'ile held her steaming cup cradled in two enormous hands. "Waystations, Master?"

Saesee inclined his head. "Yes. As team leaders, you will bear responsibility for those in your squadron. We are far from Coruscant, and your travels will take you far afield, in regions where the Republic and the Order have few friends. Should need arise, you must know where to take refuge."

Obi-Wan lowered his own half-empty cup. Under Dooku's rigorous tutelage, he had already been inducted into such secret knowledge. Waystations were hiding places – planets, moons, viable asteroids, far flung or obscure locations know exclusively to the Jedi Order. They appeared on no star maps but those safely sequestered in the Temple Archives; their coordinates were never entered into a pre-programmed database or navigational matrix, nor even printed in holobook or sent as transmission. The only means of communicating them was person-to person, face-to-face, a measure that insured their absolute protection.

"There are many in the Outer Rims," the Iktotchi continued. "Most are ancient, and seldom visited. If the Force wills that you must avail yourself of their shelter, tread carefully. Certain of them have not been used in centuries, and we have no reliable report as to their current condition."

The mention of such safe houses – places for healing or respite, protection from enemies, or touchstones for deep meditation – reminded them that this _patrol_ was no mere lark, not a routine diplomatic assignment. Those who actively sought out trouble were likely to find it; and at the borders of the civilized galaxy, where power was a fluid currency and law a distant ideal, trouble often fought _back._

Torbb dipped her head, sharp eyes glittering. "We are ready."

"Listen well, then, and remember."

* * *

"….And we got the green one after all, and his name is RG9 but I'm calling him Greenie, but it's funny don't you think that they don't have any vocabulators like the Temple droids?"

Obi-Wan finished stuffing soiled clothes into the compact laundry unit and punched in the cycle code. "If _only_ the Temple droids were deprived of vocabulators," he quipped.

Zhoa swung her legs, heels tapping against the dry-blast unit atop which she was perched. "But then we couldn't _understand_ them, Master."

He raised his brows.

"Oh!" The Nautolan covered her giggle with one hand. "That's not really showing compassion to the less privileged, you know." She fixed him with a sweetly rebuking frown, small mouth turned down at the corners.

Feld was clearly fastidious about inculcating moral principles. "You are right," he allowed. "Besides, better if they aren't skulking in corners plotting our downfall in Bocci or some other esoteric language. "

Zhoa gazed at the piles of laundry yet to be fed into the cycler. "Why are you doing everybody's chores? I thought only padawans did things like that."

"Oh, we never outgrow humility." He heaved another double armful into the open chute and flicked the seals closed. "Besides, if I didn't confiscate their filthy togs, Garen and Reeft would stink like a pair of pubescent rancors."

His tiny companion's black opal eyes crinkled into half-moons of mirth. "Are they really going to be Knights soon?"

Obi-Wan paused to consider. "Well. They've this sixmonth to complete. And then likely another solo mission each. Followed by preparation for the trials – that can take another six month or more, depending… but I suppose soon enough."

She kicked her legs faster, tap tap tap tap. "How come you're so far _ahead_ of them?" she queried, head tilted to one side.

"It's not a race, or a matter of superiority; I'm doing their laundry, am I not?"

But the youngling pushed her point, undaunted by his reluctance to answer. "But you've already been Knighted for two years. Master says you will be taking your own padawan soon."

_Oh really?_ "Master," he dryly retorted, "is _delusional."_

Zhoa pouted.

"You _want_ me to find a padawan?" He slammed a boot into the malfunctioning dry-unit, causing it to hiccup back into dutiful action.

The girl fretted with her tunic hem. "You would make a good master, " she said, earnestly addressing the pocked floor tiles. . "I mean, you have a lot of things to teach."

He chuckled darkly. "Master Jinn would tell you I still have much to learn."

Zhoa shrugged, slender shoulders rising to brush the tips of her pendant headtails. "Well, maybe it's the same thing," she observed with the infernal perspicacity of youth.

He loaded the final bundle into the cleaner unit and released a long centering breath. Time to divert this conversation into safer channels. "Tell me more about Greenie," he prompted. "And then tell me why _my_ astromech is such an insubordinate son of a scrap pile."

"Well," the youngling happily resumed into her enthusiastic narrative, "I named him Greenie because of his accent color but also because he's new off the assembly line so he's _green,_ and I'm green too in both senses, do you get the pun, Master Obi-Wan? And he fits right inside the astromech socket, and there's a translator screen you can read and …"


	5. Chapter 5

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Welcome back; I do hope the mission to Chandrila was a success. I'm quite sure the high Matriarch was loathe to relinquish her hold on you… figuratively speaking, of course. I recall our last departure nearly instigated a riot, but perhaps the natives are fickle in their affections. For your sake, I hope so._

_The training ordeal here is nearly complete. Master Tinn has doubtless got something particularly nasty in store as a sort of grand finale. There was rumor propagated about a trial run of sorts – a chance to take the hyperdrive rings out and make a test of the whole patrol system under controlled conditions. I say 'controlled' in an equivocal sense, naturally – Garen and Reeft are inherently volatile compounds. One can at best hope to _contain_ them. Lack of proper discipline notwithstanding, I am confident Hartstagg Squadron will perform honorably in the field. We'll be out snooping for trouble on backwater worlds anytime now… try not to suffer a coronary on my account. It would be too mortifying for a Jedi master to perish of acute empty nest syndrome. _

_I almost forgot: Torbb Bakk'ile says she is acquainted with you and considers you a very competent bronco buster. She also claims to know the Dug who broke your nose with his foot. Why don't I know either of these stories?_

_Alas, duty calls. Don't fret: I will be careful and keep my focus in the present moment. I think I shall take the duster, too; disreputability may prove advantageous- or failing that, it will serve as a constant reminder of my old master's peerless wisdom._

_May the Force be with you._

_-end transmission-_

* * *

Saesee Tinn did indeed have something particularly nasty in store for them.

"So…" Feld Spruu idly mused as Hartstagg squadron coasted away from the outpost asteroid in loose formation. "What do you gentlemen think he meant by _unexpected obstacles?"_

"Gravity mines in the hyperspace lanes," Garen theorized.

Reeft seconded this with a mournful addendum. "Gravity mines and bad rations."

"You never met a ration bar you didn't like, Reefer."

The Dressalian snorted. "All right. Gravity mines and hostile natives."

Zhoa's clear treble interrupted. "I thought hostility was a state of mind?"

"It's a state of mind that lobs sonic grenades at you, " Obi-Wan clarified.

"Stay out of my padawan's training," Feld barked.

"Hartstagg Four, you're drifting into my portside deflectors, for stars' sake."

"Just getting cozy," Garen quipped. His smirk was apparent through the Force.

"But why are we seeking out a beacon?" Zhoa insisted.

Feld chuckled. "It's a training exercise, young one. Don't worry, we'll hunt ours down before the other teams even drop out of hyperspace, eh, my friends?"

"Assuming we don't meet any obstacles," Reeft grumbled.

"We _will_ encounter obstacles," their squadron leader predicted. A second thought occurred to him, and he voiced it. "In fact, I expect they may afflict us individually. If anyone is separated from the group, he will address the issue and return to home base if possible. Send a broadband distress signal if you need back-up; otherwise, the remaining team members will proceed with the mission objective."

They switched thrusters to neutral a few points off the pendant hyperdrive rings and allowed their respective droid copilots to conduct the tricky business of aligning the Lancets inside the magnetic docking clamps. Once each fighter was securely pinned in the center of its appointed ring, they checked jump coordinates.

"So," Ob-Wan observed, "We're scouring the Triellus shipping lanes inside the Arkanis sector. This beacon signal should be located on an inhabitable star-system, but I shouldn't put it past Master Tinn to set up a more complex problem. Check any debris fields or unidentified objects in elliptical orbit. Let's split the area into four sectors and work inwards toward Arkaas'shatt."

Garen whistled. "That takes us clear out of Republic space."

"I don't think he would send a Corps engineer into dubious territory," Feld pointed out. "We can eliminate non-incorporated areas."

"Good thinking."

"_How_ far are we going, Master?"

"Easy, Zhoa – it's no different than jumping in a large ship. You'll be fine."

Obi-Wan privately hoped that was true… this would be his first lightspeed jump in a _tiny metallic coffin,_ as well. The prospect did not sit well with his belly, which was incentive to focus on the mapping problem instead. He parsed out the search area into four equal portions and submitted the coordinate boundaries to the other navigators. A slew of blips and bleeps answered his transmission, as the astromechs confirmed receipt of orders.

"All ready?"

"I'm hungry," Reeft complained.

"Too bad, Hartstagg Three. Reestablish comm contact once you revert. See you on the other side."

The external hyperdrives blazed into life and carried their lightweight cargo away into transdimensional space, disappearing one after another in the blink of an eye. Garen was first to vanish, followed by Reeft and then Feld and Zhoa's modified vessel – one outfitted with a co-pilot's pod behind the main cockpit. Obi-Wan found himself alone, staring at a blank canvas of star-spangled velvet, the vast abysmal _unknown._

He shook his head, banishing a sudden teetering sensation. The grav compensator might be off – surely his inner ear was playing tricks on him.

"Anchors away," he addressed his cybernetic copilot.

A moment later, they hurtled past the smearing bounds of light, into the Beyond.

* * *

"Son of a slatternly _Hutt!"_ he snarled, upon reverting to realspace at the terminus of his plotted jump.

The Force turned right-side out again, sensation precipitating back into the outward, places and times and distances spattered star-bright across unfurling space in a singular diaspora, a lurching explosion of disparity seeming to emanate from his solar plexus.

_Stars,_ he hated that. Qui-Gon had long ago taught him how to seek grounding in hyperspace; with so many other sentients, or even the Jedi master himself, at close proximity aboard a starcruiser or a diplomatic shuttle, it had always been easy to find a closely circumscribed center, a tiny coracle of Life afloat in a meaningless void. Encapsulated _alone_ in the tiny starfighter, however – well. That had not been a pleasant transition. Jedi were one with the Force, attuned breath and blood to the pulse of the universal life energy, the flow of being that bound the galaxy together; the unnatural compression and warping of hyperspace could be severely disorienting.

He breathed carefully, determined _not _ to retch inside the cockpit.

And when he regained his equilibrium, he immediately noticed that several things were not quite right.

The coordinates displayed on the navcomp display, for starters. "That's… odd."

RG53 blipped a mournful string of toots and trills, confirming his opinion, and then observed – helpfully- that they were far off-course.

"Where in the all holy blazes _are_ we, then?" the pilot groused.

Another printed string of coordinates and astro-survey drivel. Obi-Wan squinted through the viewport, blinded by a double corona glinting along its margins. Sensors indicated an elliptical gravitational well and a handful of lazy satellites somewhere out there…. He hadn't the foggiest notion where he was. A quick toggling of the comm interface confirmed his suspicion that they were too many parsecs from their intended rendezvous to make an effective link with the squadron.

"Blast it."

His astromech dutifully produced a full system diagnostic, and whistled forlornly at its contents.

"Compass malfunction?" Well that was good. As in _wretched._ It meant that he could enter jump coordinates until he was blue in the face, but likely never end where he wanted. He wouldn't be so much as able to _limp _back to home base unless he repaired that problem first. And let him guess…"Can you fix it?"

A woeful negative. The circuits had been expertly fried out and were irreparable without certain replacement components. Of _course_ Saesee Tinn had seen fit to throw some sabotage into the mix. He should have seen that coming.

"Sith take it." There had _better_ be some sort of civilization hereabouts; his only other option was to try jumping again and see what random system the blitzed navigational system landed him on. A long exhalation, and then, "I hope those gundarks can carry on without me."

A short burst of bleeps.

"Yes, I expect you're right." He wasn't about to countenance the humiliation of his squadron by sending a distress signal that would distract them from the goal. Surely he could handle this inconvenient detour single-handed. "Fine. Let's see what we've got. Inhabitable systems?"

A long wait and then the standard database entry on this system. The Force was with him, just far enough: the first planet was classified as developed, though its statistics suggested extreme poverty, harsh climate conditions, and a predominantly criminal social structure. "We're in Hutt space," he guessed, running a hand through his hair. Best to keep a low profile.

RG53 made a tremulous inquiry.

"Oh yes, I'm sure I can rustle up the parts we need." He had some credits on his person, and a fair idea what sort of scam artists and con men he would encounter on the surface. "Just find us a large settlement, something with a spaceport."

The droid cheerfully complied, and within minutes they were coasting on sublights toward a bleary red dustball of a world somewhere off to starboard. It loomed beneath them, barren and glowering even from this stratospheric height, its skies so vaporless one could see straight through it to the jagged wasteland below.

"Oh lovely," Obi-Wan groaned.

So far as first impressions went, Tatooine was not high on his list of personal favorites.

* * *

They set down on a shallow plateau overlooking the outskirts of a spaceport town – a decrepit cluster of packed-earth houses and sunken-pit architecture surrounding a central docking field. Through his macro-nocs, Obi-Wan could spy the domed roof of what might once have served as a B'Omarr monastery. If any monks were left, they would be in the advanced stages of senectitude… he shuddered at the thought of spider-like brain jars scuttling among the cobwebbed halls of the squat structure. More likely it was a smuggler's den, or had been appropriated by the local crime lord as a pleasure palace. Nearer, he could make out an elaborate stadium, though he could not imagine what sport might fund such opulent construction.

Blood gladiators. That's what it always was out here.

The town itself seemed harmless enough, its curved roofs resembling a mere huddle of hunchbacked villagers, backs turned to the excoriating sun and wind. He didn't intend a protracted stay here; and the two suns were sliding down toward the horizon, leaving eerie shadows etched over the parched plain between him and his destination. The sky was a burning azure, the twin rays of these luminaries like a kiln-blast. He rummaged under his seat and pulled out Qui-Gon's old duster. It would be some protection against sunburn, and some measure of disguise as well. Shaking out the heavy folds, he pulled it over his head and made sure the hem covered his 'saber hilt. Best not to … advertise.

"Stay here, but if local scavengers show up, take off and circle round till they leave," he instructed the droid.

Querulous affirmative. RG53 was ill at ease in this sun-scoured and lifeless milieu; and who could blame him, really?.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, momentarily forgetting that droids do not, properly speaking, have feelings.

* * *

By the time he had doggedly trudged a klick's distance to the city outskirts, his skin was prickling with angry radiation burn, and his tunics beneath the heavy duster were sticking damply to his back and chest. The afternoon heat was oppressive, the dryess of the air severe enough to leave him licking his lips for want of moisture. The streets of the so-called municipality were not paved; compacted sand served well enough as thoroughfare and gutter alike. Reeking animal dung attracted flies in the center of the walkway; battered repulsorcraft and primitive carts drawn by beats shared the road. Pedestrians milled aimlessly amid the traffic, without any discernible sign of order or right of way.

Obi-Wan stuck to the scant shade found beneath the south-facing walls of residences and shops, threading his curios way through the maze in search of a mechanic or tech parts shop. There were several, but he pushed onward into the settlement, waiting for the Force to nudge him in some particular direction. He meandered through a street bazaar where vendors hawked their wares beneath cloth canopies, and bought a clay tureen's worth of water at a staggering price, one he was cautious to haggle over for a long two minutes before grudgingly consenting.

The one-eyed crone who served him his tepid drink held the datarie chip in her hand as though it were a strange talisman, then pocketed it with a shrug as he thirstily downed the mineral laden water in one long draught.

"Easy, Offworlder, you'll choke on it," she croaked at him as he nodded his thanks.

So much for blending in. Any local would have brought his own canteen. And would not be using Republic credits. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

"Where might I procure tech equipment? My transport broke down outside town."

She extended a sun-baked, knobbly hand in the direction of a crooked bylane. "Best selection in Mos Espa, right that way. You'll be wanting Watto," she told him.

"Thank you," he murmured, shading his eyes with one hand. The crooked alley was lined with shops and cheap tenement houses. "I'll try there."

"Mind you," the old water seller called after him as he strode away. "He'll be wanting _real_ money, now!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The suns' merciless glare did not penetrate into the narrow canyon between two-story baked-clay walls. A rambling path bathed in blessed shadow carved its way between these flaking and crumbling bastions, punctuated here and there by a low doorway, or a sign – invariably in _Huttese-_ proclaiming that food, or lodging, or some service was to be found inside. At the end of this deliciously cool ravine there loomed a dark doorway over which an aging neoplast sign had been tacked.

His Huttese was sketchy at best, but he recognized _panka pachee _ and the tell tale phrase _nobata cheeska._ "Spaceship parts" and "no swindling." He chuckled darkly. This was going to make an _excellent _ story to tell Qui-Gon. He was already gleefully anticipating its narration to his enrapt and appreciative audience; the Jedi master loved a good tale of skullduggery in out of the way locales. And city where merchants protested their honesty as though it were rarest merchandise was _just _ QUI-Gon's kind of town.

He was on the point of ducking beneath the shop's sagging lintel when a tiny, subliminal whirring sound attracted his attention. It was nothing more than the ubiquitous thrum of a small repulsor unit – the kind of engine that powered any number of holo-bots or courier droids; and yet, in the instant that he turned his head, instinctually scanning the Force to identify its origin, the world seemed to move beneath his feet, a seismic tremor that shifted the very foundations of existence.

_Teetering, teetering-_

He sagged against the wall, breath knocked away by the magnitude of the _disturbance._ All about him, bustling pedestrians hurried on their way, parcels and concealed weapons tucked beneath weather-worn cloaks. The sky reeled placidly on high, the sounds of the marketplace carried on unabated. Dark and Light fell over some invisible curvature, an event horizon opening at his feet, dizzying – catastrophic, prophetic.

"Ugh…" He struggled to fend off the influx of vertiginous _premonition._

Something – here – _so important, so urgent, so so so –_

The compact black probe droid whirred to a halt a meter from his face, staring at him even as he stared back, panting. Time halted, and within that churning nexus of the Force, he _felt_ it – the watchful presence of the Other, the Dark one, oozing out of that black mechanical speck like clotted blood from an old, harshly reopened wound.

_Melida-Daan, Sifo-Dyas, the demon crowned in horns, armed with crimson lightning, prowling upon the plains beneath a darkling sky. _ The Other, the un-Self. The nightmare, the thing, the black mirror. The servant of Darkness. The elusive Enemy.

Here. Looking, looking….. seeking….

"Hey! Hey, mister!"

The droid whizzed away, as though startled, and Obi-Wan looked down in astonishment to find a small grubby faced urchin tugging insistently at the duster's hem. "Hey, you don't look so good. You better come inside; lots of _Ootmian_ get heat sickness when they first come, it's okay, but you better not stay outside any longer. The suns can really fry your brain. I mean like totally _crispo."_

The disturbance in the Force peaked into a thundering cataract that threatened to black out his senses. Stumbling, genuinely worried that he might _faint_ in the street – so undignified- he allowed the waif to shepherd him inside the door. The interior was cool and dim; small hands pushed him down into an overturned crate. He breathed, and clung to his inmost center, the spiking intensity of the vision, or revelation, or Unity, so great that surely surely his head would _explode….._

"_Ah_…"

It ebbed, or veiled itself again, a deafening cacophony like million fold bells tolling, tolling into the distance – not quieted but _muted,_ diminished into tolerable pain, a mere throbbing behind his temples.

"Here, mister, you prob'ly didn't drink enough water or something. " A canteen was thrust into his shaking hands and he accepted without thought. He hadn't the energy to protest.

And the drink was sweet, cold and mineral laden. Bracing. It slid down his parched throat into his belly, coolness spreading like a balm. Inhale. Center. Relax.

_What was that?_

He would meditate on it later… seek counsel. Never in his life had he felt anything like _that._

"Mister?"

With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the present moment, and present company. "Thank you, my young friend." He handed back the canteen, and studied the round face peering so earnestly into his own. Ragamuffin mop of badly trimmed hair, the colorless shade between blonde and faintest chestnut, the kind of dirty gold that would darken considerably as the child matured; pouting mouth, slightly upturned nose, cheeks still filled out with baby-fat, a pert chin and two very penetrating blue eyes, the intense blue heat of pitched flame, molten _vespari_ steel. Cold blue. Deep blue. Bottomless and far too old for their years.

He looked away, still nauseated by the episode outside. "I'm looking for Watto," he managed, squinting into the shop's murky bowels.

"Oh, _Watto," _ the boy repeated, a sullen twist to the word. Something about his intonation gave him away; it was as though every word this child spoke were _transparent, _ opening onto his thoughts like a stained glass window, revealing emotion and intention in chromatic silhouettes, slightly blurred caricatures.

Two truths simultaneously struck the young Knight full in the face. "You're a slave," he blurted. And _you are strong in the Force ,_he silently added.

"I'm a _person,"_ the boy insisted, stamping a foot. His aura flared with simmering heat. "And my name is Anakin."

"Well, _Anakin,_ you've been very helpful." He made it to his feet. The mission; his purpose; the lurking threat that meant he must not linger, must not risk attracting undue notice. "I'm here to do business with Watto, if he's available."

He extended a tendril of the Force, subtly prying at his new acquaintance's reflexive shields, but the boy's mind withdrew instantly into adamantine fastness, like a shelled se a mollusk. In the next instant he was as _un-present_ as a fully trained Shadow sunk in the Force's penumbra, a creature naturally and habitually adept at _hiding._ Slavery was a cruel but effective mistress, then.

And the boy was… a curiosity. Something else to tell Qui-Gon about later. An anomaly.

"I'll go get him," Anakin truculently declared, and scampered away into the shop's back office, leaving Obi-Wan to browse among the untidy heaps of wares while he waited upon the proprietor's convenience. What he saw was not encouraging; most the items for sale were damaged, outdated, or badly oxidized. Bins of cheap circuitry and universal binary plugs lined the walls. A pit droid sat immobile in one corner; he was careful not to hit its nose. Larger bits and pieces leaned against the packed-earth walls, and through a back exit he glimpsed a large scrapyard well stocked with gutted chassis and half-demolished thruster racks.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the salt texture of dried sweat against skin tender from sunburn. With his luck – not that there was any such thing, truly – the locals would never have _heard _ of a hybrid gravitron-pulsar effluvium compass, much less have one _in stock._

A few minutes later, the shop's owner – the _boy's owner , _ intuition supplied – emerged from his accounting room. Leathery wings beat frantically to keep the bloated , splotchy blue body afloat. Stubby legs protruded from a swollen paunch; a leather vest covered the sunken chest; a stubble of dark hair wagged beneath a weak chin surmounted by a protuberant nasal appendage. Bulging eyes polished off the roguish Toydarian's slovenly façade; they popped out further when he beheld the stranger under his humble roof.

"H'chu apenkee!" he wheezed, throwing out both arms wide in a gesture of welcome. "What can I do for you,eh?"

Obi-Wan raised his brows. "Watto, I presume?"

"That's me, all right, heh heh heh." A shrewd look. "And, ah, who might you be, eh?"

"I'm passing through on other business."

The Toydarian executed a tight circle about him in mid-air, long snout twitching as he made some sly private assessment. "Eh, a big _porkman Publikaner,_ by the sound of you, methinks."

Anakin stood by, watchful and silent.

The young Jedi crossed his arms. "Perhaps. I need a replacement for my ship's navigational compass."

Watto fluttered behind his counter and scratched absently at his groin. "Oh, compass… magnetic, gravitational, or pulsar radiation?"

Well, that was a good sign. "Hybrid, actually."

A dismissive wave. "No, sorry. Nothing like that in stock."

Anakin piped up indignantly. "Hey! What about that – "

"You! Stupid booki! Go clean up those vents, eh? Scram!" the store's owner bellowed, scowling at his diminutive servant.

"Eniki, eniki," the boy sulked, slinking off to the back lot with many a curious backward glance over one shoulder.

"You do have what I need," Obi-Wan addressed the ingenuous shopkeeper.

"I do… maybe – but I don't want to disappoint you. It costs more moulee-rah than you got, eh?"

"I have Republic credits. Enough to pay for what I need."

"Eh? Creeta? Nah… I need something more real. Nobody wants chuba neesi credits out here, eh."

Irritating. He waved a hand before the obstreperous merchant's eyes. "Credits will do fine."

The mind trick had little effect. "NO, they won't."

Obi -Wan frowned, and redoubled his efforts. "My currency _is _ acceptable."

Watto's rasping voice cracked in outraged amusement. "Eh, what do you think you are, a Jeedai or something, waving your hand around like that? Hah! Mind tricks don't work on my my neesi footoo, only _money."_

A sigh. Fine. One thing he could say with certainty about this greasy rascal: he was greedy. And greed could be a powerful ally. "Very well. I am sorry we cannot trade…. Could you perhaps direct me to someone who deals in cybernetics?"

"What's that, eh? You some kind of distributor or something?"

The young Jedi made for the door. "Do you know of a trader around here?"

But before he could duck beneath the entrance, Watto blocked his path, bobbing up and down in mid-air, eyes narrowed with avarice. "Why? Y got something of value? I'll tell you what – you'll get cheated out there. Nobody likes an ootmian, eh? I'll give you a fiar price for what you've got, turn it around for a little profit… something for both of us, eh?"

"No, that's quite –"

"I've got a brand new hybrid compass with integrator circuits intact," the Totdarian insisted, revealing a mouth full of blunted teeth. "Tell you what… you give me your cybernetics merchandise, I give you the compass, we're even eh? Fair and square."

Obi-Wan chuckled. "No, no – sorry, my friend. The two aren't nearly equal in value –"

"That's it! Final offer – your whatsit for my compass. And you're not going to find _anybody else_to sell you a hybrid pulsar-grav compass, believe me."

The young Knight feigned despondency. "I just don't – this isn't what you think it is –"

But greed obliterated any other consideration. Watto loomed near, hairy snout wriggling in anticipation. "You wanta chuba neesi compass or not? I got what you want, and that's my price. Trade up, fair barter."

"If those are your only terms…"

"Last offer!" the Toydarian hollered, rubbing his hands together. "Hand it over, _ootmian._ "

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan thrust a hand into his belt pouch and withdrew a code key, replete with delicate sensor-plate interface strip.

"Eh, what's this? Some kinda skeleton key…. I hope you didn't kill anyone I know to get this." He chortled conspiratorially. "Must be wortha ton a moolasi." He shoved the precious object into the small pouch hanging from his belt and patted it. "Sorry to clean you out, friend, heh heh but business is businesss. Hey! Booki chuba! Come here!"

On cue – and with an alacrity that suggested he had been waiting around the corner, eavesdropping on the entire interchange – Anakin reappeared, bouncing in place. "I'm right here."

The Toydarian shrugged. "Get this guy his compass, eh? And go help him install it. Outworlders never know poodoo about techs… don't want him crashing and blaming me for the trouble, eh?"

The boy was all but leaping up and down in glee. "Do you have a big ship, mister? A cruiser? One of those passenger freighters?"

But there was no need for the child's assistance. The _child,_ for stars' sake… "That won't be necessary," he said, stiffly.

"What?" Watto guffawed. "The boy's a genius! Take him – but I want him back before nightfall, eh? I gotta close shop and he does the inventory."

"I'll be back in time," Anakin assured him, sapphire gaze pleading with the newcomer before he rummaged under the counter for the designated parts.

It occurred to Obi-Wan that a slave boy might grasp desperately at any chance to escape the rut of his daily existence, even for a few hours. And he supposed the youngling counted as a pathetic life form. Qui-Gon would certainly have indulged him in the matter…

"Fine. I'll take him. My thanks."

Watto grunted some curt acknowledgement and waved them out the door into blinding late afternoon light. Mos Espa's streets were as odiferous and crowded as ever; they wended their way back through the market place and then the perimeter at a brisk pace, slowing only when the open desert lay before them, red beneath the cock-eyed gaze of twin suns.

"So… " Anakin said, trotting along doggedly at his side. "He really ripped you off, ya know."

"Oh?"

The boy scowled. "Sure. He's gonna sell whatever that thing was for way more than this compass is worth. I mean, you shouldn't have given him your stuff. It's just not _fair."_

Obi-Wan's mouth quirked upward at one corner. "I do believe you're right. "

"Yeah? You don't seem too upset," the youngling frowned. "Was that really like a skeleton key for magnetic locks and stuff? Cause that would be totally _wizard."_

"No, it was nothing so glorious."

They trudged back over the bleak stretch of sand and rock, headed for the bare plateau where RG53 kept his lonely vigil.

"Well, what was it then?" Anakin wondered.

The young Jedi lengthened his stride ever so slightly, falling into a jaunty rhythm, hidden 'saber slapping softly against his thigh. "It was the operator's key for a laundry-cycler machine," he smirked.


	7. Chapter 7

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

The boy named Anakin was almost as taken with RG53 as Zhoa had been.

"_Rugged!_ An astromech! Whoa! Where'd you get him? Is he all yours? Does he talk and stuff?"

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and released the seals on the access hatches beneath the starfighter's fuselage. The compass was located beneath the cockpit, which meant he would have to lie flat on his back to install the new one. And the rock, even in the scant shade of the ship, was scorching to the touch. With a muffled curse he drew the duster over his head and spread its double thickness on the burning ground as insufficient protection, then wriggled beneath the small space.

"Whoa!" the boy exclaimed, again. And then fell silent.

Thank the Force.

He ripped out the cleverly sabotaged compass, and tossed it aside. The new model was compatible, mercifully, and he spent several long minutes fussing over its installation. There were one or two connections that didn't quite…

"I can do that if you're confused," the boy offered.

For the love of…

"_How _ old are you?"

Anakin shrugged. "Almost eight. My life-day's on the fourth of Boontaga. How bout you? When's your life day?"

"I'm not familiar with your local calendar, so I couldn't say."

A ripple of disappointment, clearly projected in the Force. "Oh. Well, how _old _are you_?"_

"Blast it…" The damned circuit integrator would not cooperate…. "Twenty two standard."

"Can I ask you something?"

_Haven't you already?_ He pulled the assembly apart for the third time, strangling a curse. The hot stone beneath his back was burning into his skin despite the protection. "Yes?"

"How come you're carrying a Jedi weapon?"

Obi-Wan rolled from beneath the chassis and sat up, peering intently at the child. Really. "What makes you say that?"

Anakin pointed at the 'saber hilt. "That's a laser sword. Mostly only Jedi carry those."

A hot pit of vexation stirred deep in his gut, left there by his unsuccessful grappling match with the compass. "Perhaps I'm a Jedi," he replied, dead pan.

But Anakin shook his head. "Nah… I'm not stupid. You're not a Jedi."

"Oh?" Confound it. He wasn't entirely sure he _liked_ this cocksure little waif. "How can you be certain?"

"Easy. A Jedi would be…. I don't know. Taller, maybe. Older, too. And all wise and stuff. You know."

"I see. Well, maybe I killed a Jedi and took his weapon."

Anakin stood there, head tilted, considering this gravely. "I don't think you would kill anyone. You don't feel that way to me. You're … different. From anybody I've ever met."

For stars' sake. He nodded at the still-uninstalled compass. "Would you mind having a go at that, while we're here talking?"

"Oh, sure!" Cheerfully, the midget squirmed into place beneath the ship and set about his task with deft fingers. RG53 whistled his professional appreciation for the boy's work.

"Yes, well," Obi-Wan grumbled. Nobody would ever mistake him for a mechanical genius. Or a Jedi, apparently.

Within minutes the repairs were neatly effected. "There," Anakin grinned. "Piece of cake!" He paused, one finger tracing the insignia upon the fighter's wing. "Hey… these are Republic and Jedi symbols… you _know_ some Jedi, don't you? Like your friends?"

Obi-Wan retrieved the duster and shook grit from its folds. "Perhaps."

"Wizard! Can I meet them?"

"…No."

"But … aren't they coming too?"

"No, sorry. I'm just passing through."

He looked at the odd boy one last time, an indescribable discomfort stirring queasily in his belly. There was something… portentous about the child. Eerie. He was certainly Force –sensitive. But far far too old to be taken to the Temple for training. And besides, he was a slave, unlikely to be relinquished by his owner, even for a price. Such precocity was rarer than the most precious mineral. The word _dangerous_ formed itself in his mind, uninvited.

"Oh," Anakin said, crestfallen. "I thought maybe they would come… and free me and Mom."

So the child had a mother. His heart twisted a little, but _it was not his task. _ Not the will of the Force, at this time in this place. They weren't even inside Republic jurisdiction.

"Sorry. I am not here to free slaves."

The boy's small shoulders drooped and he blinked rapidly, mouth pressed into a determined line.

_Blast it to the –_

"Your mother…. You live with her."

A nod.

Obi-Wan fished a large datarie chip out of his belt pocket. After all, he had procured the replacement compass for _nothing._ "I'm sure money will ease some of her burdens." _Which must be many._ He tossed the glittering object down and watched the boy pocket it.

"She says the main problem in this universe is that nobody helps anybody else."

_We come to serve._ "I hope that 's not true."

"She's really smart. About life and stuff."

"I'm sure she is a wise woman."

"Will you tell your Jedi friends? 'Cause maybe they might come back."

This was waxing…absurd. "I cannot promise you anything. I'm sorry."

Anakin scuffed at the dust with one worn wrap-shoe. "Okay. Well, …'bye."

Obi-Wan stood on the wing, one booted foot already in the cockpit, a strange weight settling in his chest. Something was… "Are you all right to get back to the city?"

"Sure," the boy replied. "I do it all the time. I gotta go… Watto'll be choobazzi mad if I don't get back before sundown. Besides, predators come out to _eat_ you."

"You'd better go, then." _I am not here to free slaves._

And there was a Presence here… watching. Seeking. And now fascinated by _him._ To stay here was to endanger every innocent in the vicinity. He needed to _go._

Anakin tipped his round face upward, suddenly cheerful again. "It's okay," he declared. "You're gonna come back."

_No I'm not._

"I can sorta feel it."

_Sorta feel all you like, my young friend. I'm not coming back. "_ Farewell, and my thanks for your assistance."

Anakin squinted up at him, nose scrunching. "Hey! What's your name, mister? You never even told me."

A hesitation. And then, "Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The child betrayed a dazzling smile. "That's a funny name."

_And you are a funny little boy._ "May the Force be with you, Anakin." He needed to go. Now.

Canopy slammed shut, repulsors lifting the ship off the sun-baked earth, he hesitated one last moment to be sure the child actually did scamper and slither his way home toward Mos Espa. When he was satisfied that the dwindling figure would make it to the outskirts well before true sunset, he exhaled long and hard, and then punched his way into Tatooine's kiln-glazed sky, fleeing the strange encounter and the blasted corpse of a world behind.

* * *

The whole debacle cost him dearly; by the time he made the rendezvous with his squadron, they had already completed their mission and in were in high spirits.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our wayward team leader," Garen scoffed when he re-established contact outside the Arkanis sector boundary. "Classy leadership style, Obes."

Reeft sniggered quietly in his own cockpit. "When the going gets tough, the tough get going… in the wrong direction."

"Technical difficulties, Obi-Nobi? Or did you find a nice watering hole somewhere we don't know about, eh?"

"What happened to you, Master Obi-Wan?"

"I was the victim of malice aforethought, Zhoa…. And the rest of you can _ca'ntilllpa ma schuzzo."_

Garen guffawed. "In your dreams, Kenobi…. Besides, you ought to be thanking us. We did the dirty work for you. Zhoa found the beacon in about twenty minutes flat."

"Well done, Zhoa. I'm promoting you to second in command."

"Really?" the Nautolan peeped.

"No, little one," her mentor chuckled. "You don't want to be lieutenant to an absentee captain, anyhow."

"Maybe," Obi-Wan groused, "I was demonstrating my masterly wisdom… withdrawing my support so you could flourish in your own right."

Reeft snorted loudly.

"But what really happened?"Zhoa insisted.

"Master Tinn saw fit to sabotage my ship's astro-compass. I ended up in a star-forsaken hellhole on the far Rim in Hutt space - and had to haggle with the uncivilized natives to obtain a replacement."

"Meet anybody interesting?" Garen inquired.

"…No."

* * *

'Stagg squadron performed honorably despite the obstacles thrown in their path; they were the first back to base, and the only team to successfully complete the exercise, which- the Iktotchi Jedi master explained- had only been designed as a trial run for the system, not a measure of competency. Dinner in the outpost station's mess hall was a subdued affair, every member of the patrol weary form a day's hard labor, and perhaps more appreciative of the scope and difficulty of their undertaking. The regions they proposed to roam were vast , and murky – the wide grey swath between the Republic proper and the unincorporated regions beyond, home to HUtts, Togorians, Paxellians, and unknown others. Even within Republic jurisdiction, law was little more than a distant ideal and the name "Jedi" one likelier to inspire wild rumor or even contempt than respect.

Obi-Wan retired early, the vestiges of headache driving him to seek out his ascetical cot well before his customary hour. He was surprised to find Torbb Bakk'ile also in quarters for the night, sitting upon her narrow bunk in meditation lotus.

'Peace," she said when he interrupted her solitude.

"I am sorry to disturb you."

She waved one enormous hand at the opposite bunk. Too exhausted – or preoccupied- to formulate a polite excuse to decline conversation, he took up position, pulling off his dust-stained boots and crossing his legs beneath him. The wall at his back was cool, and blessedly firm.

"This is going to be quite the assignment," Torbb remarked.

He nodded. "Yes."

The gargantuan woman tilted her head to one side. "You're unsettled," she bluntly observed. "Why's that?"

Such forthright queries were not… the Jedi way. At least between colleagues without the intimacy of long association. One generally pretended not to notice any unshielded thoughts or emotions, or hinted discreetly that the originator of such might wish to withdraw form company for his own privacy's sake. He blinked. "It's been a long day."

"I forgot," she replied, nodding sagely. "You travel with Jinn, as a rule. It's different, isn't it? When it's just you and the Force and twenty thousand parsecs of empty space."

Well, yes. But he really didin't want to dissect his own state of mind at the moment.

Torbb leaned her head back against the wall. "Good place to run smack into destiny, the Rims," she observed, cryptically.

He made a non-commital grunt of agreement, and took refuge in feigning meditative introspection.

He feigned it for a rather long time, and eventually woke up slumped on one side, in a darkened room. Torbb's outline was visible as a lumpy mountain range upon the opposite bunk; the placid ebb and flow of the Force declared that the outposts' other inhabitants had long since settled into restorative slumber; the thrum of the air cycler and the power generator textured an otherwise total quietude.

He vaguely wondered how it was that the thermal sheet had quite managed to pull itself up over his shoulders... then turned over and drifted off again.

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Obi-Wan. I was sorry to miss your last comm. I should very much like to speak to you in person regarding your experience on Tatooine. To answer your question, yes: I have indeed been to the system – and I savor the memory to this day. It is the epitome of what you like to term uncivilized, I will admit. But there is also a stark beauty to the people there: like all desert dwellers they are tenacious and forthright, and have little energy to spare for the idiosyncratic folly of the Core. The Living Force sounds amid the wastelands there with a startling purity, too. I wish you could have ventured into the true desert to feel its resonance. Perhaps another time?_

_More to the point, however, Master Yoda agrees with me: what you felt outside the merchant's shop was almost undoubtedly a vergence in the Force. It is unlikely to be centered about that place, so must therefore be centered about a person. I am concerned that you felt a Dark presence there. Indeed, I would have half a mind to join you, were it not that duty binds me here. Valorum is floundering again - it will take much work to shore up the breaches in galactic relations his ineffectual blundering has caused. Master Gallia and I are kept hard at work stopping the hundred small leaks in the diplomatic levees. _

_One more thing: the boy you mentioned. He intrigues me. I should like to hear more about him._

_Let us try to make contact again soon. And keep your focus in the present moment where it belongs. I trust I need not remind you of this any longer?_

_May the Force keep you always._

_-end transmission-_


	8. Chapter 8

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Qui-Gon. I was grateful for your insight concerning the vergence. I meditated upon it this morning… before fifth hour, you will be inordinately pleased to know – and I believe the Dark being I sensed on Tatooine was the same one I encountered two years ago on Melida-Daan. Beyond that I cannot say more. That he is still prowling about the Rims is disturbing; his … personal interest… was even more unsettling. I wonder if we ought not to refer the matter to the Sentinels? Though surely the Council has already done so?_

_We're off on our first run this morning. The comm officers have been hard at work monitoring unusual activity in the surrounding sector - anomalous energy signatures, outbreaks of violence, all the usual petty villainy one finds out here on the fringes. I'm sure Stagg squadron will get the choicest assignment; after all, we are preparing Garen and Reeft for the Trials. Don't fret – I shall strive my utmost to avoid a premature demise. If the Force is with us, I might even be able to bring back a pathetic life form for you, as a souvenir._

_Speaking of which… the boy. There isn't anything else to tell, really. The highlight of our conversation was his commendation of _height_ as a condition of proper Jedi-hood. I should have liked to introduce him to Master Piell, or Master Yoda, just to see his reaction. He was strong in the Force, I will grant you – but that hardly matters, given his age. _

_We've met a great many intriguing characters in the field over the years - including younglings. I don't think this one is fated to be the next Supreme Chancellor._

_I shall try once again when we return to base. In the meanwhile, don't do anything I wouldn't, and may the Force be with you._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

The outpost's comm. equipment was reliable but arthritic; sending a quick message to the Temple proved an impediment to punctuality.

Obi-Wan arrived on-deck with ten seconds to spare, and to the accompaniment of sarcastic applause from his underlings.

"He lives!" Feld Spruu chortled. The Lancets and droids stood at the ready behind Stagg squadron, all systems go.

"Trouble in the fresher?" Garen guessed. "Nervous tummy before the Big Day?"

"You are dispensible, Muln. All ready?"

"I'm ready!" Zhoa peeped, bouncing in place, headtails joggling slightly as she performed a little anticipatory dance. Feld's restraining hand brought her down to earth again.

"Disappearing cargo freighters over in the Takkliss," Reeft informed him, theatrically. "Might be a _black hole."_

"The only black hole here is this sector is your stomach, Reeft. Let's go."

But before he could join his eager companions, Torbb Bakk'ile's resonant voice echoed across the hangar. "Kenobi!... A word with you, please."

Garen caught his eye and drew one finger across his throat in a very evocative gesture. Reeft sniggered and made haste to scramble into his cockpit before the enormous Knight could demand a word with _him,_ also.

"Is Master Obi-Wan in trouble?" Zhoa whispered to Feld.

_Force grant me strength. _ Rolling his eyes he strode across the decks to meet Torbb well out of his squadron's earshot.

The gigantic woman folded her hands neatly. "A boon, " she said. "Will you grant me one?"

Obi-Wan's brows rose.

"You are investigating disappearances in the Tarkliss cluster…. If you encounter a pirate captain styling himself Uticus…. Leave him for me. Put a tracker on his ship, if you wish. But let me be the one to deal with him."

It was a bizarre request. "You… have a history with this pirate?"

Torbb's deep set eyes flickered. "It is complicated. Will you do this for me?"

Torbb Bakk'ile was not an individual whom one _brushed off._ And they shared a bond of …. Collegiality. Friendship, of sorts, he supposed. There was nothing against such an arrangement in the Code, though hairs at the back of his neck prickled uneasily. "Very well," he hesitantly agreed.

"Your discretion and compassion are appreciated," she murmured, dipping her head. Strangely, despite her towering stature and fierce appearance, an underlying thread of vulnerability colored Torbb's Force signature. Complicated.

But _complicated_ was his bread and butter. "I will keep your confidence." After all, there was no reason to suppose anything _dishonorable_ lay behind her plea.

She stood proud and tall, silky black topknot cascading over one burly shoulder, dark cassock falling in thick folds to the deck, light-saber gleaming at one broad hip. "The others," - a dismissive glance in the squadron's direction- "will not understand. You – you would, I think. Thank you."

He bowed, and watched her depart for her own waiting squadron, feeling certain that he did not _understand_ in the least bit.

* * *

"So… I am not thinking this is a black hole, eh?" Feld remarked, once the foursome had reverted near the first star in the Tarkliss cluster.

"Why not?" Reeft objected. "I've got an irregular energy field registering out there past point four four."

Obi-Wan frowned over this information. "RG, what _is _ that?"

The astromech protested its ignorance but displayed the anomalous reading on the nav-comp interface.

"It's _sucking_ radiation into itself," Zhoa gasped. "Maybe it is a black hole!"

Her mentor chuckled. "Not every wavelength, young one. And that's not _nearly _ a big enough disturbance to be a collapsed star."

Garen flipped his fighter over in a leisurely barrel roll. "Plenty big to overcome a ship's compensators – I'm thinking gravity mine."

"Possibly." It was unusual for such a device to _continuously_ generate a field of influence; as a rule they were planted at strategic locales along hyperlanes and triggered by a transdimensional intersection, not kept running like a power generator. But…. "Stagg Three and Four. You go investigate. Report back before taking action."

"Roger that, Stagg Alpha." Garen rolled his fighter again, and then powered away in the direction of the anomaly, Reeft on his tail.

"So," Feld mused when the two senior padawans had dwindled into specks, "How shall we entertain ourselves while those two grow in wisdom, eh?"

"I wanted to see what it was," Zhoa lamented, quietly.

"Not to worry," Obi-Wan assured her. "We're sure to find something much worse than that out here."

* * *

They hadn't far to look, either; and what they found boggled the imagination.

"This does seem likely," Feld remarked, stepping over his fighter's wing and onto the rain-spattered tarmac of an open-air spaceport surrounded by tropical yarbanna groves. "Nice place to disappear for a few weeks, eh?"

Zhoa clambered out of the ship behind him, sliding off the wingtip and trotting to catch up with her teacher's long stride. Her head tilted up to watch the dazzling glory of the late afternoon sky, she turned a full circle and then grinned widely. "I like it here!"

Obi-Wan took a deep lungful of sultry, humid air. The planet – one of a dozen inhabitable systems in the Tarkliss sector – was designated on the star charts as developed but _sub-standard_ for economic growth, and isolationist in politics – a mere island in the Republics' vast archipelago. Scanners had shown an equatorial climate that most sentients would classify as paradisiacal; upon Feld's mischievous suggestion, they had set the comm equipment to filter through local holo-net channels in search of the most widely advertised "watering holes" – and discovered that an impressive cluster of such popular venues was located on a small island network in the south-eastern hemisphere.

The docking area was little more than a clearing in the center of a vast yarbanna plantation; a beaten path led through the towering foliage to a humble assemblage of outbuildings and a repair hangar; beyond this an air-taxi pad and a scattering of vendors' carts marked the boundaries of the port.

Feld sauntered up to the pilot of an idling luxury-model hovercar. "We're new to the region… where does one go to wet the whistle hereabouts, eh?"

The driver peered u at him with jaded eyes. "Most outworlders like the outdoor market – plenty of eats and drinks there." Something about Feld – a gleam in his eye, or the unconscious and slightly predatory grace projected by many young Jedi – prompted him to add a private recommendation. "But if you want a _really_ good time, I can drop you over by the freighter docks. Between you and me."

The tall Twi'Lek knight summoned his companions over with a brisk nod, dropping a fat credit chit into the pilot's till. "This fellow knows his way around."

They piled into the wide passenger compartment and activated the privacy screens.

"But why do we have to _mingle?"_Zhoa inquired.

Her master crossed his long shanks in the center aisle. "A dozen cargo freighters do not go missing without _somebody_ catching wind of it. Gossip is a useful source of information. Am I not right, Obi-Nobi?"

"Absolutely," his friend concurred. "But let's have this much clear: _you_ are investigating the docks."

Feld spread both blue hands in a gesture of entreaty. "I have an impressionable young padawan! Sorry, Kenobi, the dockyards are your beat this time."

"I don't think so."

"Please!" the Twi'Lek snorted. "Your space-pirate's sewer mouth will fit in just fine over there. I'll be taking Zhoa to the marketplace."

"I will take your padawan to the marketplace; _you_ will go hob-nob with the crème de la crème of sentient scum."

Feld shook his head, _lekku_ subtly twitching. "I have seniority, my little friend."

"And _I'm_ squadron leader."

The Nautolan padawan clapped in delight. "He's right, Master! Technically, I mean." She blushed violently, green cheeks dusking to a smoky olive.

Her mentor collapsed backward against his seat, defeated. "_Sar'mekku!_ Fine. But give me more money, Obi-Nobi. I'm light in the saddlebags, eh?"

Obi-Wan handed over a considerable portion of his funds. "Don't lose it all in one gambling parlor," he advised, dryly.

Feld rolled his eyes. "What makes you think I'm going to lose?"

"Our last game of sabaac," the other Jedi smirked, much to Zhoa's ill-disguised amusement.

The blue-complected Knight wagged a finger at him. "Ah, but the villainous low-brow drunkards at the docks are too honorable to cheat like you do, Kenobi, eh?"

His young apprentice's giggle was not entirely muffled behind her hands.

Obi-Wan merely raised a brow and gazed blandly at the blur of tropical scenery.

* * *

The open-air market was erected beneath the variegated canopy of tall _milapa,_ their vast fronds swaying in a warm breeze. Salt and a sharp ocean tang tinted the air.

"Oh!" Zhoa exclaimed, lithe green body coiled as though ready to cavort through the alluring aisles in a fit of childish enjoyment. Jedi training held firm, however; her enthusiasm remained appropriately bridled as she trotted along beside Obi-Wan, small feet pattering on smooth paver stones as he made a somewhat pensive survey of the various wares and goods offered for sale.

Something was not… right.

"Master!" his small companion peeped, momentarily dispelling the _bad feeling._ "Look… this is Nautolan food. Moon cakes." Her round black eyes were twin pools of entreaty, melting and irresistible.

_Sweet Force._ How did Feld withstand it? Obi-Wan privately vowed to seek out something less… well, _cute…_ when he chose an apprentice of his own. Not that he intended to do so in the foreseeable future. But a teacher must _not_ be tempted to capitulate to his padawan's charms. It wasn't good for either of them. Qui-Gon, for instance, would have turned this into some kind of object lesson on detachment, or asceticism, or flipped his desire on its head by compelling him to purchase some repulsive insectoid delicacy in stead of the preferred treat, or –

"Master Obi-Wan?"

He handed over a few dataries, because junior padawans had no stipend of their own; a minute later he was sampling the coveted Moon Cake beneath the shade of a convenient awning.

"Mmmm," Zhoa enthused, happily munching the bean curd and seaweed concoction. The purveyor had posted several effusive testimonials on his compact holo-board; it was to be concluded therefore that the Moon Cakes were excellent, though this was in no way apparent to a human palate.

"Very distinctive," he decided, generously offering the remaining half of his cake to the Nautolan girl, who loved him all the better for his self-effacing munificence. "Shall we?"

The _bad feeling_ returned full force in the next minute, coalescing from vague unease into conscious and articulated mistrust as he made a shrewd appraisal of the market's goods. There were import items from all over the galaxy – cybernetics, food, textiles, some herbs and medicines, raw industrial supplies, cookware, decorative objects, cheap artisan products… a mish mash of merchandise with no particular unifying quality, and no lack of _abundance._

There were _hundreds, or thousands,_ of each item, stockpiled in crates and baskets, offered on sale at staggeringly low prices.

"You can get _anything_ here," Zhoa remarked.

"Not quite." There was a dearth of certain obvious necessities – and a surplus of luxury items the planet's economy could in no way support. Locals flocked to the stands, greedily acquiring Core world extravagances at cut-rate prices. He pointed to a purveyor of medical goods. "She hasn't more than a dozen capsules of bacta… but she's got gallons of _anti-aging _ cream."

The young Jedi rubbed some of the sample lotion into her thick, mottled skin. "Will it really reverse cellular deterioration?"

"Two for one," the aged merchant wheedled, shoving a bottle of the exotic cosmetic under Obi-Wan's nose. "Perfect gift for beautiful lady friend, hm?"

Zhoa frowned. "Who does she mean?" she whispered in his ear.

"Master Yaddle, of course. … Thank you, my friend. Where does this hail from, if I may ask?"

But the friendly shopkeeper clammed up instantly. "Imported," came the terse answer. "It's tariff free if you buy it here, too."

The young Knight nodded and meandered his way back into the throng, Zhoa at his heels.

"What's the matter with this place?" she inquired, catching wind of his suspicion.

They headed down a wide avenue on the settlement's outskirts. "A riddle for you, padawan: how is it that a backworld bazaar is flooded with _thousands_ of identical Core-world factory-produced items, at obscenely low prices, with no apparent tariff or regulation?"

The small Nautolan mused on it for a full minute, stubby headtails swinging this way and that as she jogged to keep pace with his purposeful stride. "They… stole the goods from someone?"

His mouth quirked in a grim smile. "They split open a slew of cargo pods off an intergalactic shipping freighter. I think we've found the destination of our missing mercantile vessels. The question is, how and why?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"Hold on a moment, Zhoa- this might be Garen and Reeft."

They halted beneath a yarbanna pendant with ripe clusters. The Nautolan watched intently as he answered the comm. "Kenobi."

Static rendered Garen's voice into fractured spurts; the long distance amplifiers in the Lancets were hard pressed to relay the message – but the gist came across.

"….not …phenomenon at all…. Some kind of… installation – construction site… invite us… should?"

Obi-Wan considered carefully; his friends were, after all, both ranked as learners and under _his_ protection while the mission lasted. ON the other hand, the Force shimmered delicately, apprising him of something _curious_ about this industrial power-source. What in stars' name could be vast enough to generate energy readings on par with a small astrophysical catastrophe? "Proceed with caution," he advised, smiling wryly at the unhelpfully vague tenor of this admonition. How _piquant_ to be the one delivering said time-worn Jedi wisdom, for a change. Next he would be counseling broad-band spectrum _patience,_ or perhaps even the universal and unspecific panacea for all doubt and confusion: _focus._

"….what do we… objective?"

Garen sounded a bit miffed by the open-ended nature of his assignment, against all expectation.

_He's edgy but pretending not to be._

"Padawan Muln and Golodnyy," he intoned, severely, his own dimples deepening with enjoyment at the nicety of this situation, "You are initiates of the Jedi Order, and postulants to the rank of Knight. The Force and instinct will guide you."

A hearty snort from Reeft's end of the threeway link. The Dreassalian's retort was blurred by static, but the general sentiment was not lost in translation.

"That's right, Stagg Three – I _am _the leader. Consider yourself suitably _led."_

Garen signed off with a promise to report back once they had completed an inspection tour, and rounded off the transmission with a highly colorful valediction in Huttese.

"So uncivilized," Obi-Wan drawled, shoving the link back into its belt pouch. "Come along, young one."

Zhoa nodded sagely and trotted behind him, docile as a pet yarrix.

He could get used to this.

* * *

They located Feld at a seedy gambling parlor on the quayside.

"The Maroon Moon." Zhoa cocked her exotic head to one side, contemplating the neonium shingle outside the establishments's only entrance. "No minors allowed."

A drunkenly waddling Kuss'har chucked her under the chin as he lumbered past, reeking of intoxicants.

"Easy." Obi-Wan maneuvered his tiny companion behind him, warily extending his senses into the smoke-laden rooms within. "Oh- just a moment, then. Here he comes."

Sure enough, a cacophony of shouting and indistinct thumps – _bodies hitting the walls,_ the young Jedi expertly hypothesized- shook the converted warehouse's corrugated magniom walls. One or two blaster shots followed, amid a chorus of swearing and the irate shouts of the proprietor. A dozen or more disorderly patrons came tumbling out the door, clutching ribs and sporting black eyes. Two or three were badly limping.

"And stay the hells out!" the manager bellowed at their hunched backs, a dusting of booze-scented spittle accenting the remark. He stumped back into the dim environs, cursing eloquently under his breath.

A moment later, Feld Spruu appeared upon the threshold, headtails slung casually over one shoulder, a bounce in his step and an unvoiced chuckle lurking in his liquid dark eyes.

"Master! You're hurt!" Zhoa peeped, staring aghast at a small spatter of blood upon his sleeve.

"What?" The Twi'Lek Jedi frowned down at the offending stain. "…Oops. Not mine," he smiled, flashing slightly pointed teeth. "Things got a bit rough in there, eh?"

"Just your kind of dive," Obi-Wan remarked.

"I hope, Padawan, that you have not been getting up to _trouble_ with Obi-Nobi here," Feld soberly addressed his apprentice.

"Oh, no, Master!" she assured him. "We only had some moon cakes."

"While you were having a good time."

They moved into an adjacent alleyway running between dilapidated buildings and the open landing pads. Feld grinned, and tossed a heavy pouch of credit chits at his friend. "I made some interest on your investment, smart-_pula._ You can thank me later. Two hundred dataries profit, at least."

"I'll be sure to include that in the mission report," Obi-Wan grumbled, unimpressed.

The tall Twi'Lek laughed. "They accused me of cheating like their own mothers – that's when it went to the hells in there. But listen, 'Nobi – I also got some good information. This place is flooded with offworlder crew members – all headed to the same place."

"You mean like the crews of those missing freighters?" Zhoa clarified.

Her mentor nodded. "Yes. And not so missing anymore, eh? They're sitting in that hangar over there." A long blue finger pointed across the landing field. "Six or seven at the moment."

Obi-Wan scowled. "At least some of their cargo has made its way into the local market – nothing particularly valuable."

"Maybe the really valuable things are sold somewhere else?" the small Nautolan guessed.

"Very good, Zhoa." Feld leaned in, conspiratorially. "And the captain and officers get put up at a place called the Oasis. We should have a look 'round, eh?"

* * *

The Oasis turned out to be an obscene pillar of tinted transparisteel thrusting up from its tropical environs, monolithic and discordant in its gleaming modernity. The three Jedi paused within the shadow of this imposing edifice, gazes traveling up and up the vaguely pyramidal structure's polished walls.

"It looks like somebody picked up a building on Coruscant and dropped it here," Zhoa decided.

Feld concurred. "Ostentatious."

"And not built by local money,"Obi-Wan added. It was almost certainly a money-making gambit concocted by some Rim profiteer.

The lobby was tended by a supercilious droid concierge, and its dithering automated staff. Mirrored walls magnified the luxuriant foyer into an endless citadel of identically appointed rooms; Feld more than once was obliged to remind his padawan to _focus._

"Welcome to the Oasis, a resort for the weary traveler. May I assist you?" the robotic hotel manager enquired. "We have very few vacancies at the moment, but our dining level and casino are open, as well as the recreational decks and massage parlor."

"Do they have a _swimming pool?"_ Zhoa inquired, tagging on her master's sleeve.

The Twi"Lek knight shot her a repressive look, but not fast enough.

"Of course," the slick droid responded. "Our heated facilities include seven waterfalls, four bathing pools and an artificial hot springs."

Being of an aquatic species, the young Nautolan practically quivered with longing.

Feld bent down to address her directly, one hand on her slim shoulder. "Clear your mind," he directed. "the lure of pleasure is how such places snare their victims."

Obi-Wan leaned over the slab countertop. "Ah, alas. I don't think our pocketbooks are quite up to the challenge. " he perused the rate schedule, shaking his head mournfully. "Indeed not. These all-inclusive packages cost more than most crewmen make in a year."

But their suave servitor was ready with its answer. "We do offer an alternative payment method based on direct barter," it informed him.

"But we haven't anything of value," he insisted, feigning obtuseness. "We just do small cargo transport jobs, and the ship we need to make a living."

The droid's head turned this way and that in a conspiratorial gesture. "Unfortunately due to solar wind flares in this sector, several of our visiting cargo freighters were obliged to jettison shipping crates above orbit, in order to stabilize the holds. Unfortunate, but a risk of the business."

Zhoa frowned up at her elders, not quite following.

Obi-Wan turned to Feld and winked. "I see. That is a most helpful suggestion," he murmured.

"The Oasis is at your service, gentlemen. Shall I put you on a waiting list for accommodations? A large party is departing this afternoon, and their rooms will be available later."

The blue-skinned Jedi waved a hand airily. "Oh yes… sign us up. Do you need a deposit?"

The requisite down-payment all but cleaned them out, Obi-Wan slid the stacked dataries across the polished marble counter, meeting his companion's gaze levelly. Republic credits carried by Jedi were routinely registered and traceable; this transaction alone should yield interesting results when the payment was eventually deposited.

"Please help yourself to refreshments in the Lounge on your way out," the droid burbled.

* * *

"That was a good drink," Zhoa commented an hour later, as they exited the hotel's posh reception lounge and threaded their way back toward the docks.

"Too many of those will put hair on your chest, " Feld warned her, although her _virgin_ Eyepopper was unlikely to have quite the same potency as its full-blooded incarnation.

The padawan's delicate brows contracted. "But you always order those, and there's no hair on your chest, Master."

Obi-Wan chuckled at his companion's expense. "Out of the mouths of babes, Feld."

"It's a species-specific idiom," the Twi'Lek huffed. "We're not all Wookiees under our robes, eh?"

Zhoa skipped along the path a few paces in the lead. "Master Palo is the _hairiest_ Jedi in the Temple," she prattled. "But he's not human. Humans don't start furry – my clanmates weren't very fuzzy at all but sometimes humans grow more fur when they get older. ToKol has a _beard_ all over his face now, can you believe it? What about you Master Obi-Wan? You have lots of hair on your head, are you furry for a human? Are you the most hairiest human?"

"No, that dubious honor goes to Master Qui-Gon," the man's former student smirked.

Feld clapped him on the shoulder. "Always playing with fire, Obi-Nobi."

The culprit spread his hands. "It's not disrespect; it's the _truth."_

Zhoa scampered on ahead, youthful spirits buoyed by fresh air, a sugar-saturated beverage, and the thrill of expanding horizons.

"So," the Twi'Lek snorted. "What shall we do, eh?"

" Get serial numbers for the freighter vessels, wait for that deposit to clear somebody's Banking Clan account, and report the scam to the Council and the Senate Trade Commission. "

Feld strode amiably beside him. "We need to find out who their black market liaison is. Somebody is smuggling goods off-planet , or I'm a Wookiee."

"Even under your robes?... I think I have a name already. Uticus."

The Twi'Lek gave him a peculiar look. "Did I miss something, my friend?"

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I have my sources."

"Well, perhaps we should wait for this character to show back up – intercept the next shipment and make an arrest."

It was an appealing proposition; but circumstances were more _complicated_ than that. "Republic jurisdiction is disputable out this far – and we haven't any idea how long that reappearance might take." Besides which, Torbb Bakk'ile had made a special request. An unusual but not inherently dishonorable one. "I suggest putting a tracker on… say, a cargo pod waiting for offworld shipment."

"We can send Zhoa into the docks to find something put on reserve. She can practice her stealth skills."

"Perfect. They've stockpiled valuable merchandise somewhere, probably in a hangar – the cheaper items go to the local markets, but the targeted goods have to be stowed away until the smugglers return."

"Good. She'll like that assignment. Then what?"

"We'll delegate to another team. This sort of operation is more in Knight Bakk'ile's line… and we've got Garen and Reeft to worry about, too."

"Fair point," Feld chortled. "Leave smuggling rings to Torbb, eh? We've got the _real _desperados to handle. "

* * *

The desperados in question arrived back at the rendezvous point later in no very humble state of mind.

"So," Garen's voice crackled over the ship-to-ship comm., "Was the rest of the squadron productive while we were gone?"

Sarcasm bled heavily through Stagg Alpha's response. "No… we only solved the mystery of the disappearing freighters, uncovered an illegal smuggling and black market scam, and took measures to identify the funding and organization behind the conspiracy. We're quite incompetent without you."

"I infiltrated a warehouse and put trackers on some cargo pods without _anyone_ seeing me!" Zhoa piped up. "I shielded _perfectly!_ Master Kol'Bretta would be so pleased."

"Well done," Reeft told the eager padawan.

"Yes," Garen chimed in, "You can help Padawan Golodnyy here raid the commissary at the Temple next."

"Oh dear," Zhoa murmured, uneasily.

"Pay him no heed," Feld advised. "I seduced Obi-Nobi into downing a couple Eyepoppers –"

"Three," his fellow Knight corrected. "Each more vile than the preceding."

"- but he was no fun at all."

"With respect," Garen shot back, "You don't know what you're doing. I've got this."

"Got _what?"_ Obi-Wan demanded.

"Whoa, Obes, relax. Don't you want to know what we found out there in Reeft's black hole?"

"Not a black hole?" the young Knight guessed, dryly.

"No," the Dressalian admitted, ruefully. "But you'll never guess in a mega-aeon."

"Well then, " Feld impatiently fumed, "Spare us the ennui and make a proper report, eh?"

"Back at base," Reeft promised, mournfully. "I'm too famished to give a report. Can't we fold?"

Obi-Wan released a grumbling sigh. "Yes, all right. Stagg squadron, re-engage hyperdrive rings and rendezvous at home base. Last one to the hangar is a mangy cock-eyed wampa spinster."

RG53 wailed in distress as he shot past the other Lancets in a spurt of blazing speed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"So," Reeft dramatically intoned, polishing off his third portion of dumplings in hoi broth and shoving the emptied bowl across the small dining table, "What We Saw in the Tarkliss Sector."

Obi-Wan peered dourly at the dregs of his companion's meal and pushed the bowl away with one finger.

"A Thrilling Tale of Espionage and Derring-Do," Garen added, tipping his seat's circular base back upon its curved rim. "Starring Padawan Muln and his loyal aide de camp, Reeft."

The Dressalian snorted.

"Would you like more flatbread?" Zhoa inquired, politely.

"Don't interrupt the bombast," Feld chastised her. "I'm hanging on every word, eh?"

Reeft rolled his mournful eyes. "An inattentive audience, Gar. They aren't worthy to hear the tale."

"What tale?" Obi-Wan growled. "Out with it or we'll nip down to the empty storage hangar and _inspire _ a more detailed exposition. With 'sabers."

"Oooooh, a threat from Stagg Alpha," Garen laughed.

"If you value the integrity of your posterior, Muln, you'll start talking."

Feld guffawed. "Obi-Nobi is jockeying for Master Windu's Council seat! Watch out, my friends."

Reeft stepped in to play peacekeeper, in accord with his Jedi calling. "Calm down, you lot of horny rancors."

Zhoa's black eyes glossed with confusion. "Are those like jungle rancors?"

"We need more bread, Padawan."

The Nautolan nipped away to fetch another basket from the serving droids, while Reeft launched into his narrative with manifest enthusiasm.

"So, we revert about three points off the center of the energy field disturbance and do another scan. Sure enough, something right out there is absorbing broadband radiation like there's no tomorrow. But the mass reading is too low to be a collapsed star –"

"Like I said," Garen pointed out, smugly.

"-so we initiate a clandestine approach-"

"Whatever," Garen interrupted. " The main point is, when we were within hailing distance our thrusters malfunction and the astromechs about have a conniption."

Reeft shrugged. "Compensators got scrambled by the disturbance. So anyway, there we are stuck in the mud when a escort craft comes sailing over and wants to know who we are. They were pretty snotty sons of pizzmahs at first but when they heard we were Jedi they fixed their act."

"That means they are doing something illegal," Feld interposed.

Garen raised his brows. "Wait till you hear."

"So." Reeft cut to the chase. "After some initial pleasantries and whatnot, we end up getting a tour of the facility. What it is, is this _thing-"_

"_Yes, _ we gathered that much," Obi-Wan drawled.

"Shut up, Kenobi. This _thing," _ the Dressalian padawan resumed, "That resembles a Federation Core ship generator on serious steroids."

Feld frowned, shadows obscuring his bright gaze. "You mean, even bigger?"

Reeft nodded solemnly. "Hard to judge how big really; it was covered in grav scaffolding and we ended up inside the construction barge… but seriously – I think this thing could be the engine for a ship as big as a small moon."

"Stars' end…"Feld muttered. "That's just… crazy. _Sal'methu, eh?_ Imbalanced in the mind. "

"You okay, Obi?" Garen squinted at his childhood friend.

The young Knight ran one hand through his hair, looking pale. "….Someone just walked over my grave," he said, with a thin smile.

"Jedi don't have graves," Zhoa mused, returning with a platter of hot flatbread.

"We met the head engineer too – odd character, not much older than us and eccentric as Utapauu's orbit. Raith Sienar was his name – he designed this outlandish whatsit, wants it to work ever so badly. Too bad it's physically impossible."

Feld crossed his arms. "According to you."

Reeft held up a hand. "I did all the calculations. Mass and structural tension, the amount of neutron inhibition shielding you'd need to counteract the grav differential – power source like that couldn't maintain molecular integrity past oh point nine-"

"Okay, Reefs, we get the picture."

The Dressalian aborted his display of mathematical acumen and glowered across the table at Garen. "It's impossible," he insisted. "Pipe dream."

"But somebody is funding his research – two they must have confidence in at least the theory."

"Yes." The Twi'Lek's lekku twitched. "The Techno Union has rights to install orbital stations in that district. I wonder…"

"It's perfectly legal," Garen interjected. "Too bad. I thought the whole thing was rather creepy."

Obi-Wan nodded. "I have a bad feeling about it." He frowned. "We'd best include a detailed account in the mission report and forward to Coruscant immediately. You two intrepid explorers can make that a homework assignment tonight."

Garen pulled a gargoylish face at him. "What about you two exalted masterly types?"

Feld grinned. "Sparring for us."

But his preferred partner declined with a rueful shake of the head. "Not tonight, Feld… I need to meditate."

The older Knight raised his brows but ventured no comment. "Fine. Zhoa, we're going to learn a new kata. Ready?"

His Nautolan protégé bounced to her feet, undaunted by all this talk of engineering monstrosities and quasi-legal experimentation. "Yes, Master!"

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Alas, we seem doomed to pass like ships in the night. I received your message first thing this morning, however, and have meditated on its import since. This engineering project is indeed a novelty- though, I might remind you, the unalloyed ambition of youth is not. Sienar is merely a brash padawan of the technophiliac world. Building a gravitational fusion drive big enough to move a moon is not so very different from attempting a level four velocity blindfolded without proper instruction, is it not? In every generation, the brightest lights must test the bounds of their own ability and pay for the effort in disappointment and wisdom. I wish the young fool best of luck with his project. What the Council may say about his undertaking is another matter, one I cannot address._

_Your brief sojourn at the Oasis reminds me of a journey mission I endured some thirty years ago, in Feemor's company– but some things are better not conveyed via comm., however securely encrypted. Remind me to tell you about the Khasl'tarr Casino incident when you return. The scheme out there in the Tarkliss cluster is ingenious, however: ships dock at the port for a tenday or so, unload a few choice crates of cargo to pay for the luxury vacation, and write off the loss as an emergency jettison in the captain's log. If they are careful not to fleece any one company too severely, the losses will merely be written off – and what officer or crewmember would dare play whistleblower when he reaps the benefit of paid vacation at a premier resort?_

_It took some money to establish, though – and is not a typical modus operandi for space pirates. If the latter are involved, I suspect they are merely subcontracting as smugglers. As for Uticus, the name rings no bell. I am sure you have trawled through the Archives database already, in vain – I shall confer with Dex at the next possible opportunity. He always has both aural slits to the ground, and knows more disreputable informants than there are sandfleas on a bantha's hide._

_In the meantime, I am glad to hear that Hartstagg squadron is performing up to your exacting standards. I've a brief respite between ambassadorial debacles, thankfully. And I woke today to discover that the tentacled _ hostaxi tactilis _seedlings have already budded. Their flowers are carnivorous and exude a musky pheromone renowned for its soporific qualities. Master Pertha is beside himself with anticipation. I can send a holo-image if you would like._

_May the Force keep you._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

Torbb's squadron was still out on patrol; he had the small cabin all to himself.

In deep meditation, where luminous spirit roamed the Force's broad corridors, he found himself enmeshed in a diaphanous labyrinth, a maze woven of shifting veils, none opaque but each so barely translucent as to cast dark and shifting shadows upon the ground. Through this wending twist of screens he wove, the draping walls about him yielding and yet deceptive, seeming to shift on every side, blurred silhouettes moving just beyond them, difficult to recognize – things humanoid but not, shapes familiar and yet alien. He trod lightly, turning this way and that, following some fading siren's call of instinct.

Overhead, where the high ramparts opened to a roofless night sky, an infinite dome of blackness arching away, a blood moon loomed, blotting out half the heavens. Its lurid face was pocked, crisscrossed by geometric scars, and marred by a single Cyclops eye in the center – a grotesque crater left by some primordial cataclysm. He could not bear to gaze upon it, and yet he felt its chilling stare upon his back as he twisted and turned through the endless pathways of his prison.

The vision transformed: the maze melting into a wall, a series of walls, in impalpable barrier set between this shore and that – an ambiguous, liminal zone between two warring fronts. The veils now were tinted crimson, a rank of parallel curtains erected between him and the opposite side, translucent, shimmering. A dark shadow prowled across the way , mirroring his own motion, a perverse reflection of his own energy. Back and forth they paced, watching the other, armed with red and blue lightning, the Enemy only dimly seen through seven intervening shrouds: demonic crown of horns, leering volcanic eyes, skin painted the colors of ash and blood, agonized sigils scrawled over chest and face, the grim inscription of some unholy oath.

And the moon looked on, lusting for _vengeance_.

He started out of the trance on a cold adrenal surge, palms slick and breath coiling sickly in his lungs.

"Blast. _Blast_ _it."_ Beyond the outpost's fragile metallic shell, bottomless hunger howled, the plunging emptiness of void.

Inhale. Exhale. Focus… _do_ something. Seek grounding in the here and now.

Three solid minutes in the 'fresher shower stall, with water set at a temperature just above freezing, and he felt fairly impeccably centered in the present and bodily again.

Teeth chattering hard enough to prevent the unbecoming deployment of further imprecatory eloquence, he hastily dressed and tied back his sopping mane. The station was provided with a small observation deck on the upper level; it ought by rights to be vacant at this time. In lieu of the Temple map-room, a view of actual stars, burning serenely in their appointed places, might soothe any remaining frazzled nerves.

* * *

To his surprise, Saesee Tinn seemed to have the same idea.

"Forgive me, Master – I did not mean to disturb you."

The Iktotchi Jedi waved a hand, inviting him to stay. They stood surveying the silent panorama of stars.

"It is beautiful to look upon," the grim Jedi master observed after a long silence. "-The galaxy in all its splendor. The darkness is illumined and given _substance_ by ten thousand , ten million lanterns. Without the stars, there would be no distance or space, only formless void. Emptiness is measured into potential, into meaning, by that which shines within it. Light and dark exist in harmony here, the former ruling and suffusing the latter." His hand rose and indicated some far horizon, past the last nebula. "But past here, past the edge of the galaxy, there is only Night punctuated by few stars. That is where the Dark lurks, slinking about the margins of our civilization, ready to unravel and consume it. There is a _reason_ the Rims are rife with evil. Can you feel it?"

Not a pleasant topic of conversation, but certainly a salient one. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. "Yes, I can."

Saesee Tinn's horned head dipped briefly. "You will grow more accustomed to it, in time."

Paltry consolation, but the young Knight managed a tiny smile. "I thank you for your wisdom."

He watched the Iktotchi depart in a quiet skirl of cloak. Had the Jedi master _felt_ his uneasiness in the Force and come to give counsel? There was no way to be certain.

The stars shone on, unsullied and tranquil, for an hour or more. Eventually his chin drooped against his collarbone, and he left the unchanging vista for the more practical necessity of a warm bunk.

* * *

Or deck plates, as the case might be.

"What are you doing here, Obi?" Reeft mumbled, slatting one eye when he invaded the small cabin.

"Give me a pillow and a blanket," the intruder commanded.

Garen tossed a soft bundle at him. "Whassa matter? Lonely without Torbb?"

"Are you volunteering yourself as replacement, Garen?"

Reeft chuckled into his own pillow, wheezing with mirth.

"You're a bloody riot, Kenobi."

"Both of you can it! I'm trying to sleep here!"

The floor was not uncomfortable, as floors went. Obi-Wan wrapped himself in the thick blanket and thrust one arm beneath his head. In the dim warmth of the shared space, he could easily believe himself once more curled up in Ali Alaan's crèche, or Troon's clan, Garen and Reeft in their assigned places beside him, safely sheltered in the Temple's indomitable heart.

He fell asleep to the sound of Reeft's snores.


	11. Chapter 11

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Please don't bother with a holo of the tentacled hostaxia – imagination supplies a more than vibrant depicton of the thing in all its pregnant splendor. I should not wished to be distracted from my duty by such underwhelming manifestations of the Living Force._

_Do tell me what Dex has to say on the subject of piracy in the Rims – perhaps his unique breed of informants will prove useful in finding this elusive Uticus fellow. I should not be surprised, anyhow. _

_I… we, rather – are off again so soon as the Lancets get a tune-up. Nothing yet has come of our Tarkliss cluster investigation; is it wrong of me to be unsettled by the fact we've not encountered worse trouble? Or is that merely a side-effect of your absence? My meditations have been disturbed ever since Tatooine. I cannot entirely dispel the sense of a …presence. Something elsewhere, elusive – biding its time. That being – the one the Council thought might be Sith: he is out here. Somewhere._

_Waiting for me._

_Well. That sounded paranoid delusional. I'd better stop talking now before I make a thorough ass of myself._

_Your company is sorely missed, Master. Even the pathetic life forms._

_May the Force be with you._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Ah. I had hoped to catch you this time; I barely missed your last message. _

_Do not center on your anxieties, Obi-Wan; it will beget nothing bur further unease. In my experience,_ _disturbed mediatation means that one is not heeding the will of the Force, not listening to its subtle promptings. If you have been able to find a true center of peace since Tatooine, then it stands to reason you have missed something of great importance, at least to your personal destiny._

_I know you do not wish to hear this, but have you given any more thought to that youngling? My instincts tell me he is … significant, somehow. I'm sending you some excerpts from the Praeceptium Universalis. Madame Nu very obligingly helped me locate the relevant passages, as I am not intimately familiar with the intricacies of the Code. I think, perhaps, you will find them clarifying._

_I almost forgot: Bant conveys her warmest regards. She was promoted to full healer yesterday, and has already assumed her station as Ben To's official assistant. I know this because Master Pertha was obliged to visit the med ward subsequent to inciting the wrath of a dormant bezzil hive in the smaller arboretum. His curiosity seems to have got the better of his prudence, which proves that no matter what venerable age we attain, we still have much to learn._

_Your presence also is sorely missed, my young friend. _

_-end transmission -_

* * *

The empty cargo bay at the station's base made an excellent open hand combat arena.

" Attend carefully, padawan. Size matters not."

Zhoa nodded earnestly, wide opalescent eyes fixed on the amusing spectacle unfolding upon the scuffed deck plates. "It's not a fair match though Is it, Master?"

Feld stretched his long legs out, lounging idly upon an overturned crate. "Fair odds, Kenobi?" he called out.

Obi-Wan crouched in the center of the space, eyes tracking Garen and Reeft's predatory motion around him. "Not at all," he decided, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. "They're outnumbered."

"Out_sized,"_Garen corrected. "By his ego."

Reeft's bark of laughter echoed off the bare ceiling.

"Size matters not!" Feld reminded him.

"Yes, Garen, there's no need to indulge in unbecoming envy of my superior endowments."

"You son of a leprous Hutt trollop," the victim of this taunt growled, launching himself into action. Reeft quickly joined the fray, resulting in an explosive tussle and the swift air-borne propulsion of either padawan into opposite corners of the bay.

Obi-Wan straightened his tunics and chuckled deep in his throat. "You'll have to do better than _that."_

Zhoa jumped up and down on the spot. "Did you see that, Master? He threw him over his shoulder! Did you see?"

"Calm down, little one." Feld patted the crate beside himself. "This is a pedagogical exhibition. Watch and learn."

The tiny Nautolan settled in cross-legged next to her teacher. "I'm learning," she promised.

* * *

Torbb returned with her squadron in disarray.

"Difficult run?" Obi-Wan inquired, when the towering Knight appeared beside him in the refectory.

She nodded, downing two tall glasses of protein blend in one long draught.

He lowered his voice. "We placed trackers on some black market cargo likely to be picked up by an expert smuggler."

Torbb's weary eyes glinted, and she glanced up at him in alarm.

"I've told the comm officers to alert you when the beacon is activated."

Another nod, and then a disdainful twist of the mouth as Garen and company approached with laden trays. "Excuse me," Torbb said, rising. "I'm asleep on my feet."

He stood and bowed, watching her depart at a half-shuffle.

Reeft slammed down his tray. "So we're chopped gundark liver, eh?"

Torbb turned in the entryway and made eye contact with Obi-Wan. A wafting of gratitude warmed the Force, and then she was gone, long black queue swishing out of sight behind her voluminous robes and cloak.

Garen slid into the vacant spot at table. "That was a close one, Obi. You owe us for the timely rescue."

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Forgive the delay in response; playing watchdog to all the padawans around here is rather all-consuming. I see the wisdom of the Order's prohibition against taking on more than one learner at a time. On that subject, I did receive and peruse the guidelines for recruitment of new initiates. It was very solicitous of you to highlight the portions regarding 'special exceptions' to the age and origin clause. Why do I get the feeling that the only portions of the Code you are familiar with are those dealing with exceptions and special dispensations?_

_The hint was not lost on me, by the way - but that does not mean I am suggestible enough to yield. I am _not _returning to Tatooine to pick up a pathetic life form. However, if in my absence you find yourself at loose ends, by all means enroll in a recruitment mission and haggle for the boy yourself. He might find you more in conformity to his stipulations of height and advanced age. Indeed, you would surely exceed all expectation in both respects. _

_Send Bant my congratulations, and my sincere hopes that she does not fall asleep on the job, as has been her wont in the past._

_-end transmission—_

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Ah, you begin to grasp the realities of teaching. There is no more efficacious road to wisdom. There is little more I can teach you; someday – soon – you must submit yourself to the rigors of a steeper and more difficult path, that trod by every Jedi on the narrow way. There is a reason the Order bestows the title of Master upon those who have trained their own student, and it is not one of expediency or empty custom. To teach is to learn, more and better than the student. We end our apprenticeship in truth and fact only when we begin again at the very outset of the Path._

_Enough lecturing – I console myself with the knowledge that you will attend carefully , if only to dissect my rhetorical failings. We can settle the matter more thoroughly at a later date; I hope I may be better able to inspire you in person. In the meantime, let me convey to you Dex's information regarding the notorious Uticus._

_According to his contacts, Uticus is not a man but a role or title held successively by several pirate captains in the Ka'shtarr region; of late, ships displaying his insignia – a cracked human skull surmounted by a single topknot– have been making raids as far out as the Tarkliss Cluster and the terminus of the Hygerrian way. There may in fact be a tribe or band of independent cutthroats united under this leader or "uticus", the present incarnation of which is rumored to be a humanoid of middle years and great stature, as well as fearsome battle prowess. Dex himself was dismissive of such reports, reminding me that spacers derive great pleasure in the whimsical enhancement of their tales – but follow your instinct in this matter, as in all things. _

_Rumor sometimes falls short of truth rather than overshooting it._

_Bant returns your felicitations and admonished you to be careful out there – indeed, she swore that should you return to the Temple in a compromised condition, as is your regrettable habit, she would use the occasion as an excuse to shear off most your hair – on the grounds that it is a shameful affectation and an unbecoming personal ornament. _

_I would be cautious indeed, my friend; she had the look of a woman who means business, and I cannot find any fault in her condemnation. After all, Master Seva says, - and I quote: "The prerogatives of age, when usurped by ambitious youth, are reduced to mere badges of vanity."_

_May the Force keep you, Obi-Wan._

_-end transmission-_

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_This may be my last chance to send a comm for some time – Master Tinn has decided to send Stagg squadron out to address a long-standing disruption of trade routes in the Gordian Reach. Apparently the Federation has seen fit to blockade Yavin Prime, abusing their privileges and stretching the bounds of legality to breaking point. I'm not ecstatic about the prospect of sitting at a negotiating table with Nemoidians, but the Chancellor has requested a diplomatic solution and we've been chosen._

_It will provide Zhoa an opportunity to observe Jedi in the role of consuls – or, if the Nemoidians prove obstreperous, a spectacle of unparalleled cowardice. Feld has privately expressed a burning desire to bring home one of their absurd hats as a trophy, and I do not think he cares whether it still has a head under it or no. _

_But that may have more to do with the Trade Federation's oppressive stranglehold on Ryloth. Jedi or not, he feels a deep connection to the Twi"Lek people. I shall endeavor to restrain his ire, and I won't mention that Master Dooku has a genuine Sub-Committee Commandant's headdress in his own curio collection, lest I inadvertently foster envy among fellow Jedi._

_Speaking of which, I should like to see Bant so much as _try_ to enforce her idle threats against my person – though I shall be careful, nonetheless._

_Please extend my thanks to Dex for his help. His contacts' description of the present Uticus are intriguing to say the least… I suppose it will not surprise you that I have a bad feeling about the whole affair. In confidence, I must confess that Torbb Bakk'ile asked me to leave him to _her, _should the Rim patrol happen upon him. I suspect a personal history between them , though I do not thereby intimate anything dishonorable. She made the request of me personally, and I will not betray her trust by delving too deeply for answers… but it does make me wonder. A good deal. _

_I also wonder about your familiarity with Master Seva's wisdom. The citation you so glibly proffered as evidence for your position is, in fact, antecedent to the following words: "….and the crown and glory of youth, when not gracefully relinquished with age, fades to a tarnished and tawdry bauble, the pathetic decadence of dwindling vigor." Master Seva was surpassingly insightful, would you not agree?_

_Well. There is little else by way of news here._

_I expected to reach you this time… it is three in the morning on Coruscant, according to the standard chronometer. Perhaps you are on mission, in which case I wish you welcome home upon your return. _

_It is… odd. This, I mean. _

_I ought to get a move on, then, or Garen will accuse me of brooding._

_Force be with you always, Master._

_-end transmission -_


	12. Chapter 12

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Any number of tourism-fueled economies thrived in the Tingel Arm, the majority of which fell within the Corporate Sector's broad swath, a political no-man's land created some centuries earlier as a neutral zone where mega-industrial giants could operate at will, with only minimal supervision by the galactic Republic.

"So… what does minimal supervision really mean?" Zhoa inquired over the ship to ship comm., just after Stagg One and Two reverted at the rimward end of the Hygian way.

"It means spot inspections to insure that Galactic workers' rights statutes and environmental preservation guidelines are being followed," Feld supplied.

"It means," Obi-Wan amended, " that a very appealing lump sum of tax revenue is a powerful motivation for Senate inspection committees to look the other way."

The small Nautolan fell silent, caught between the horns of a private dilemma. "But…"

"This whole region was handed over to the greediest barves in the galaxy four centuries ago. Better us than them, is what the Core systems thought about it," Feld elaborated. "Most places out here aren't inhabited, and most that used to be aren't worth living on anymore. Mining and manufacturing have taken care of that."

"Horrible," his young apprentice said. "I remember learning about some of that in history class. Why doesn't the Republic stop it?"

Obi-Wan snorted. "What? And forego the inalienable right to luxury? Who do you think supplies the raw materials for most the Inner Rim's wealth? Somebody has to occupy the bottom of the economic food chain."

The Twi'Lek chortled at him. "Kenobi, the revolutionary firebrand. He'll be distributing pamphlets at the spaceports next."

The subject of this mild abuse fell silent, reflecting ruefully that the production of zealous tractates was not outside the purview of his immediate, biological, lineage – nor the fostering of rebellion and unconventional thought outside that of his teaching line on the Jedi side, so to speak. He was _bred_ to be a radical… from more than one point of view.

Fortunately, focus determined reality.

"No offense, my friend," Feld added when his ensuing silence threatened to burst the bubble of their present camaraderie.

"None taken…. I'll simply condemn you publicly in my next vitriolic masterpiece." The active scanners were registering a significant gravitational disturbance ahead; RG53 confirmed the obvious suspicion that they had run afoul of the rumored Trade Federation blockade.

"Well, well, look at that, eh?" Feld whistled softly. "That's the mother hive."

"There's so many!" his astonished padawan concurred.

The distant planet – Phoeeb – was all but obscured by the _plethora_ of Federation ships hovering over it like carrion birds above a slowly expiring beast. No approach on any vector whatsoever would circumnavigate the strategically placed guardians – and not many ships were large enough to counteract a Nemoidian Core vessel's powerful tractor beam, which was after all designed to convey endless streams of cargo crates to and from the surface.

"We'll never get through," Zhoa lamented.

"Piffle," Feld admonished her. "A Jedi does not say _never."_

"But in this case we needn't," Obi-Wan reminded her. "We're inviting ourselves to tea, remember?"

The Nautolan girl was not so easily put off. "But isn't that rude? Shouldn't ambassadors follow etiquette?"

Feld laughed outright. "Most the time, little one. Most the time."

"This _is _correct form_,"_ his friend objected. "It's in the Handbook of Aggressive Negotiation. Section four, subclause six: the unauthorized application of a tractor beam to one's personal conveyance is to be considered an open ended invitation to make one's self at home."

"I …haven't studied that yet," the tiny padawan said, in a small voice.

"I'm censoring your curriculum," Feld huffed. "Nothing on this man's reading list is appropriate for consumption by the innocent."

"Are we going to be stuck on one of those giant things?"

"I prefer to call it _hospitably detained,"_ Obi-Wan offered.

"I don't like being _trapped," _ Zhoa confessed in a barely audible whisper.

"That's not what matters," Feld assured her. "All that counts is being trapped in good company, eh, Obi-Nobi?"

"Oh, absolutely," the other young Jedi airily agreed. "Let's not keep our hosts waiting."

* * *

The inevitable tractor beam landed them in a lower hangar bay aboard one of the massive core ships – a hollow cavern in the belly of an outlandish metallic crab, both curving arms extended in a ghoulish open circle embrace, the grasping arms of avarice given embodiment by some inspired shipwright.

"They don't look very _happy_ about the open ended invitation," Zhoa murmured, mincing across the decks a pace behind Feld. Indeed, the Nemoidian welcoming party appeared particularly sour-tempered, and the hundred-strong escort of battle droids did nothing to ameliorate this bad first impression.

"Never mind," Obi-Wan told her. "They always look that way."

"Oh… Padawan Golodnyy told me about that. Is it because… you know?"

The two young Knights hesitated fractionally, catching one another's mystified gaze.

Zhoa colored a deeper shade of green. "He said… well, he said the whole species suffers from acute chronic bowel impaction. It sounds awful."

Feld's dazzling grin lit up the entire hangar; Obi-Wan smothered his smile behind one hand. "_Reeft_ is not a reliable authority," he cautioned their naïve companion.

The amused byplay seemed to rouse further pique in their hosts. The droid contingent raised rifles to ready position.

"Get behind me," Feld snapped at his protége, even as he and Obi-Wan sauntered forward apparently unfazed.

A sniveling and stooped-backed reptilian, dressed in floor length robes and an absurdly sculpted black felt hat, stepped forward to greet them. "You are trespassing on Trade Federation property," he lisped, lidless eyes bulging slightly outward.

Feld deployed his most charismatic smile. "As Ambassadors from the Galactic Republic, we thank you for your warm welcome."

The Nemoidian's glazed eyes shifted left and right, seeking counsel from his quavering colleagues, who merely spread pudgy, webbed hands and shrugged two pair of sloped shoulders. "Oh, ah… Ambassadors," he wheezed. "We are honored by your presence." His uneasy gaze rested upon the two 'saber hilts peeping beneath the Jedi's cloaks. "Oh, ah… most honored Jedi, of course." A clumsy half-bow, one shallow enough not to upset the precariously balanced headdress.

Obi-Wan raised an ironic brow at the mechanized honor guard. "Oh good… we were starting to wonder if you'd mistaken us for somebody else."

Their host forced out a wheezing chuckle. "Ah, please, Ambassadors… the precautions are taken for your own safety… I am sure you understand – this district is a most _uncivilized_ region."

"Please, don't take any trouble on our account," Feld urged him. "We can handle ourselves, eh?"

The Twi'Lek's slightly alarming smile had the predicatble effect of unsettling his interlocutor further. A hurried consultation among the Nemoidinas – in their ungainly native tongue- and the droids were summarily dismissed, flat feet clomping down an adjacent corridor in eerie synchrony.

The foremost reptilian threw wide his arms. "Please join us in the officers' lounge for refreshments, and, ah, we can speak at our leisure," he simpered. "Allow me to introduce myself. Carnn Glodd, at your service."

Zhoa peeped one eye between the two older Jedi, gawking unabashedly at the towering pillar of ornate cloth and rumpled flesh presented by their new acquaintance, and was introduced formally by her mentor as an "associate."

"What kind of refreshments?" she whispered, urgently, as they followed their shuffling escort through the bay doors and into the enormous ship's labyrinthine bowels. "Moon cakes?"

* * *

Within half an hour, a protocol droid was sent in with a tray of libations and dubiously nutritive finger-foods, among which the coveted moon cakes did not make an appearance; Zhoa was happily occupied for a short span by this routine and rather lackluster munificence. But when Glodd, after promising to return to the salon cabin after a brief conference with his ships' officers, gave no sign of remanifesting himself, she began to grow impatient.

"Is it in their _nature_ to make us wait this long?" she inquired, plaintively.

Obi-Wan spread both hands and shrugged. His familiarity with the mores of Nemoidians was limited to certain superficial aspects of their culture: their predilection for vapid conversation and their rather….quaint …taste in personal apparel were both notorious. But the intricacies of diplomatic interaction with the cutthroat Trade Federation moguls remained something of a mystery to him – nor had he yet set foot upon Cato Nemoidia, their reputedly vile homeworld.

His Tei'Lek comrade leaned back in his chair, shamelessly propping both boots upon the polished tritanium board table. "They're scared witless – never seen such debonair fellows as us before, eh, Obi-Nobi?"

"_You_ would frighten anyone, my friend."

The Nautolan padawan giggled, then reached out a delicate hand to sample another of the peculiar hors d'oeuvres .

"Don't eat too many of those nasty things," her teacher advised. "They might be poisoned."

"Yes, Master," the youngling squeaked, dropping the dainty back onto its tray. Then, squinting, "…Are you twisting my tails?"

Obi-Wan defended his companion's veracity. "It's true – the Nemoidians have an impressive repertoire of assassination techniques; the entire culture is built on the twin principles of ruthless back-stabbing and cowardice. There was one eccentric Neimodian entrepreneur who poisoned every member of his manufacturing company, for fear one of them would sell trade secrets to the Techno Union."

The petite Nautolan's eyes narrowed further. "_Really?"_

" Really. Eventually he went bankrupt and was forced to borrow money from the Techno Union to salvage his business. He provided the aforesaid secrets as collateral on the loan, of course. Which proves either that being rich doesn't pay, or else that he should have poisoned _himself._ I've never quite decided which is the moral of the tale."

"You make my head hurt, Master Obi-Wan."

"Pay him no heed," Feld snorted, winking at his apprentice and tapping one blue finger against his temple. "Our friend here is on the eccentric side himself." He summoned one of the misshapen culinary tidbits into one hand with a frivolous application of the Force, and popped it contentedly into his mouth.

"Master! That might be poisoned! You just said so!"

"Yes," his fellow Knight drawled, "I think you're already growing mutant lekku – just there…"

"Sal'chu!" Feld choked, spitting the remnant of his mouthful into a hastily snatched hand-cloth. "Stars end, what filth…. "

"I thought it tasted all right," Zhoa muttered.

"You will eat anything, little one."

Obi-Wan fished his commlink out of its belt pouch. "Speaking of eating anything…"

The Twi'Lek Jedi slapped one hand against the tabletop. "I forgot! Our stowaways!"

Reeft Golodnyy's voice ttansferred across the link as disgruntled static. "When you said _wait for our signal…"_ he groused.

"I didn't say how long," Obi-Wan snapped. "So you've nothing to complain of."

"Ha!" Garen barked in a hoarse undertone. "You try balling up inside the spare parts hatch for _two hours, _ Kenobi."

"It wouldn't be such a snug fit for him," Reeft pointed out, abstractedly.

Obi-Wan reasserted his authority. "What's going on down there?"

"Nothing. Place emptied out after you left. Some spidery maintenance droids came by a bit ago… got into a pissing contest with our astromechs, by the sound of it – but they're gone now."

"Good. You know what to do. We'll be in contact if we need to. Otherwise, follow the plan."

"Right, Stagg bosski. Got it, Reeft?"

"Just waiting for my circulation to be restored," the Dressalian muttered.

"May the Force be with you. Kenobi _out."_

"You think they can handle this, eh?" Feld wondered aloud.

"Not to worry – mayhem is their speciality."

* * *

Carnn Globb eventually found the wherewithal to formally entertain his guests. He brought with him two advisors, a protocol unit, a scribe droid, and a half a dozen bodyguards, which – he obsequiously explained – were merely a customary accompaniment to any social gathering of importance, as a mark of respect for the visitors rank and power.

"You shouldn't have gone to the trouble," Obi-Wan dead-panned, privately judging that a _mere_ six droids was something of a back-handed compliment; two or three dozen would have been more frankly flattering, as such things went.

"Please, let us sit," their unlikely host wheezed. "I am honored by your presence, but I must admit… I am also confused. Surely the Republic has no _objection_ to our blockade? It is, I assure you, perfectly legal."

"Oh, we are confident you've attended very carefully to every legal nuance," Obi-Wan replied, evenly. "There were just a few trifling matters of concern. If you would be so kind as to clarify the situation?"

Globb waved his servitor forward. The droid poured a pungent liquor into small bowls. "Please… let us be _collegial."_ He lifted his own cup and tilted its rim to his lipless, jagged mouth.

The young Jedi caught one another's eye before imbibing, but the Force issued no strong warning of danger. Humble olfactory sense did that much without mystical assistance. Even Zhoa wrinkled her snub nose in ill-disguised repulsion.

Feld placed her serving back on the tray and tossed his back with admirable fortitude, swallowing several times and clearing his thorat in the aftermath of its violent egress down his throat.

Obi-Wan took a cautious sip, eyes watering.

"So," Globb happily launched into his doubtlessly prepared exposition. "Let me explain matters."


	13. Chapter 13

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

"You see," Carnn Globb lisped, "the Phooeban natives are quite _underdeveloped._ They still use the aurodium standard, and their economy is based on direct exchange of value. As far as we can ascertain, the indigenous language contains no concept-base for _planned obsolescence _or even _compound interest._"

"Utterly savage," Feld Spruu concurred, with a droll sidelong glance at his companion.

Obi-Wan's expression remained inscrutably bland.

Warming to his apparently sympathetic audience, the Nemoidian continued, rubbing his pudgy mottled hands together. "As you Jedi may be aware, the Galactic Senate has recently passed the Universal Trade Protection Act, a sweeping reform which ensures the uniform security of-"

"We are familiar with it," Obi-Wan cut him off. He had wasted exactly five standard hours of one precious furlough day on Coruscant attending a legislative changes debriefing, and did not care to have the contents of that ennui-filled occasion summarily regurgitated for his listening pleasure.

"Excellent," their host wheezed. " Then you understand that it mandates the Protection Tax, which all planets in the affected region must pay in order to fund the extensive anti-piracy measures provided by the Trade Federation for the common safety of all the Republic's citizens."

Feld stretched his long legs out beneath the table. "Let me guess: Phoeeb has failed to comply."

Globb's glazed eyes widened, translucent nictitating membranes flashing over jagged pupils. "It is _illegal_ not to opt for coverage under the new provisions. Their premier is a most obstreperous and stupid person; he insists that his people will supply their own protection when they don't have two credits to rub together."

"Well," the other young Jedi replied, reasonably, "Perhaps that explains why they can't pay the fees.. the insurance premiums for non-corporate sponsored systems are staggering."

"Tax," Globb tartly corrected him. "Mandated by the Senate."

"Ah yes, forgive me."

Feld wagged a finger at his friend. "You know better than that, Obi-Nobi… enforcing payment of insurance premiums would be _extortion._ This is a _tax."_

"Perfectly _legal,"_ the Nemoidian reminded them. "The Galactic legislature stands behind us."

"Of course," Obi-Wan demurred. "That makes all the difference."

"What difference?" Zhoa frantically whispered, tugging at his sleeve hem.

Feld silenced her with a soft wave of the hand.

Globb's lipless mouth puckered into a sine wave of dissatisfaction. "We have been obliged to _blockade_ the planet. Naturally, the expense of enforcing the contract will be added to their bill."

The Twi'Lek Knight stirred in place. "Pardon me, but given your statement that the Phoeebans are impoverished, how do you expect them to meet such demands? And how much trade can an underdeveloped planet engage in? This is a very _extensive_ blockade for such an insignificant world."

"Surely you aren't _setting an example_ for other potentially non-compliant systems," Obi-Wan added.

The Nemoidian squirmed. "This is a perfectly legal business affair," he insisted.

"In that case," Feld suggested, evenly, "Let's have the Phooeban premier up here. I'm sure you and he can reach a suitable resolution with Jedi mediation."

Globb did not appear enthusiastic about this proposal, but he sourly acquiesced, waving one hand at his underlings. "Contact the premier-"

"Wait a moment," Obi-Wan interrupted. "Don't bother with the charade. Haul him out of whatever detention cell you've got him in and bring him here. You've got five standard minutes."

Globb leapt to his feet. "How dare you insinuate-!"

The young Knight's brows arched upward. "I? Insinuate? It is _perfectly legal_ for you to detain the representative of a delinquent contract holder, is it not?"

"Oh." The outraged Trade Federation officer deflated. "For a moment I thought you were accusing me of violating diplomatic protocol."

An amused pause. Then, "Far be it from me to indulge in any such slanderous misrepresentation."

Uncertain whether the sum balance of this statement came to a bare compliment or a subtle insult, Globb issued orders to his minions, whereupon four of the droids and one of his sub-secretaries disappeared into the corridor outside.

"More refreshments?" the Nemoidian offered, unctuously.

* * *

The subsequent twenty-five minutes were monotonous, and devolved into awkwardness quickly. Carnn Globb's skin acquired a sickly cast as the time wore on; soon enough a nervous tic appeared beneath his right eye. Feld Spruu sprawled at ease in his chair, cloak overflowing onto the polished deck in extravagant folds. Obi-Wan rested in the present moment, reminding himself that it was most unbecoming and ungentlemanly to relish another being's distress, and Zhoa fidgeted in place, large globular eyes shifting curiously from one of the other of her elders, manifestly wondering at the delay.

Occasionally, during this largely silent interlude, one of the Jedi's commlinks would ping, whereupon its owner would flick a casual glance downward, send a curt reply signal and replace the device in a belt pouch. By the fifth such occurrence, Globb's flesh was visibly crawling with unpleasant anticipation.

"I cannot imagine what is taking them so _long," _he muttered, succumbing at last to the demands of nervous tension and pacing about the small conference salon. The two droids remaining as bodyguards watched his restless peregrinations with expressionless metallic faces.

"Is there a _problem?" _Obi-Wan drawled. "I was under the impression this was a perfectly _legal,_ routine affair."

"It is! It is!" the craven Nemoidian assured him, all too quickly.

"Are you _sure_ we can't have some more refreshments, Master?"

"Hush, Zhoa – a Jedi is guided by the Force, not her stomach."

"Unless he happens to be Reeft ," Obi-Wan observed, off-handed.

Globb's own private communicator buzzed for his attention; though the reptilian turned his back and hunched his sloping shoulders in a vain effort to shield the incoming transmission from would-be eavesdroppers, his reaction was more than sufficient to betray its contents.

"What do you _mean,_ a malfunction?" he dithered. "That is impossible!"

His interlocutor rattled off some impassioned reply in their native tongue, a series of clunky, guttural beads hung on a thick string of aggravation.

"What?" Globb nearly choked on the syllable. "What do you _mean_ automated cargo jettison? No, no – do something about it, you idiot! Now! And get that mangy little _glottspukkin _ up here immediately! I am stuck in here with two _Jedi,_ in case you forgot!"

Zhoa grinned widely at her mentor, who flashed his own alarming smile in reply. Obi-Wan cleared his throat dramatically.

"Technical difficulties? Perhaps we can be of assistance?"

The Nemoidian pivoted in place, eyes bulging. "No, no no no….a minor technical glitch in our cargo holds… Premier Mynn is on his way. I am confident we will be able to reach a mutually agreeable compromise."

On cue, chamber's heavy doors parted to reveal the droid escort, with a curious figure in tow. The Phooeban prime minister was scarcely taller than Zhoa, though of a burly and compact build. Heavy creases of flesh defined his forehead and nose; white tufts adorned the ridges above his burning yellow eyes and the sharp point of his chin. Another dwindling thatch of white was braided into a conical ornament atop his head, which sat squarely atop a thickset neck. Boldly patterned garments – simply woven, but thickly embroidered, covered the diminutive president shoulder to toe; one three-pronged foot peeking beneath the hem of this heavy robe revealed thick digits surmounted by blunt claws.

The Nemoidina's lip curled in revulsion as he gazed at his prisoner, exuding the instinctive repugnance of a mammal for an insectoid or vice versa.

"What further deviltry do you propose to me now?" the elder barked at Globb, dispensing with all preliminary formalities.

His host sneered. "Save your insolence – the Galactic Senate has sent _Jedi_ to enforce the new policy."

Obi-Wan stepped forward, hastily amending this glib assertion. "We have come to mediate the dispute between your people and the Trade Federation, Premier Mynn."

The tiny creature's eyes widened. "Only a fool would get in the middle of this mess," he grunted.

Feld made his own formal bow of greeting, flashing a white smile. "Angels rush in where fools fear to tread. Please… we would like to hear your account of the situation."

With utmost dignity, Mynn drew himself up to his unimpressive height and tilted his bearded chin upward, eyes flashing defiance at the contemptuous Nemoidian in the corner. "It is a simple matter, Master Jedi. I know your Order are the henchmen of the Senate, but I will not tame my words to court your favor. Phoeeb is a free world, and a member of the free Republic. At least , we were. This new law is a travesty and a great injustice. Phoeeb cannot afford the taxes levied upon it for the upkeep of a robot militia we never approved or voted for; nor can we sustain the expense of an outside militaristic patrol. Pirates have seldom molested us, and shipments to our world are few and far between. We expressed this to our representative in the legislature –"

"But you do not possess independent representation," Feld pointed out.

Mynn scowled. "We are part of a conglomerate voting bloc – one hundred ten systems in all – but nothing came of it. The proposed cost of Universal Protection, as they term it, would equate to half our planet's gross product. You must understand we are the recipients of aid from the Service Corps – due to natural disasters in the last year, we are in dire need of both bacta and new seed for crops , and the trade embargo placed upon us has prevented the delivery of those vital supplies. Phooeb is suffering greatly due to this gross injustice, and we have done nothing to deserve it. Our crime is that of poverty, and powerlessness. What is a democracy if the people have no voice?"

Globb puffed his chest out with indignation. "The people _have_ spoken, Minister. The Unioversal Protection Act was voted into existence by the _majority _of independent systems. And membership on a democracy means accepting the majority ruling, for the common good."

Irate, the Phoeeban premier leapt onto a chair's seat, to gain a better vantage point from which to declaim. "What is a _common_ good when many starve and die in order to ensure its existence? It is not the common good, you wish to preserve, it is the security of your shipping lanes – and Phooeb has no share in your trafficking! Why have you chosen us as objects of persecution?"

The Nemoidian's jagged mouth curved into a heartless smirk. "It is not _persecution;_ it is prosecution. Your world is in violation of Galactic law."?

Mynn threw up both hands in an appeal to the Jedi. "And you will stand by and allow this gross insult to the very principles of democracy stand? Can you do nothing to reverse the imposition of corrupt and oppressive law?"

Feld shook his head, lekku twitching. "We cannot change the law to suit our own, or any being's, needs."

"So much for the guardians of peace and justice!" Mynn snorted.

Globb's commlink chimed again, frantically. After a short garbled message, the Nemoidian shook so badly his headdress was in danger of toppling from its perch. "What? What? How can that be? Abort all automated functions immediately! Shut the blast doors! Close down the traction generator! This is intolerable!"

"Problem?" Obi-Wan inquired, politely.

The distraught Trade Federation magnate wrung his hands. "Our cargo holds are suffering a severe malfunction. Thousands of shipping crates have been mistakenly jettisoned into your atmosphere, Premier Mynn. We will be sending a collection party to-"

"Ah, ah," his Jedi guest interrupted. "You mustn't do that."

"What?!"

Obi-Wan spread his hands, pacifically. "Your blockade is legal so long as you remain above the ionosphere; any breach of the system's actual free-fly boundaries and you have committed an act of hostile invasion. That is the protocol – and I am sorry to say, we cannot change the law to suit our own needs, or those of any other being."

The Nemoidian fumed. "But – that cargo! Its value –"

"Will nicely cover the Phoeeban deficit in taxes, I think," Feld supplied. "Galactic law also states that atmospheric flotsam is property of the sovereign system in which it is found, unless a trade agreement already exists between that system and the original owner of the property. That is the law."

Globb turned purple.

Obi-Wan stroked his chin. "Of course, you are entitled to initiate a hostile invasion of the Phoeeban sovereignty if you so wish.. but as a witness to the executive order, _my_ protocols dictate that I act with extreme prejudice." His hand crept suggestively toward his 'saber hilt, a slight motion that activated the half-dozen battle droids trigger-happy defensive programming.

In the next instant, Zhoa Pleromata had propelled herself through the air in a neat dive-and roll tackle, knocking Mynn from his perch and tumbling him beneath the table in a single protective swoop, The six droids opened fire on the perceived aggressor, and two blazing 'saber blades sizzled into screaming life, carving identical ribbons of sapphire light in midair as blaster bolts were expertly deflected into walls, ceiling, floor, and the clumsy automated guards. The last droid's head skittered across the table and thudded to a standstill at Globb's feet.

The Nemoidian stood appalled upon the spot, mouth gaping open in terror.

Obi-Wan frowned at Feld. "That last one was _mine,_ thank you."

"You were too slow, Obi-Nobi. I got there first."

"You cut across my stroke; I was going to –"

"You can come out now, Zhoa."

The Nautolan padawan emerged from her position of cover, cajoling the stunned premier into accompanying her. "That happened _fast,_ Master."

Feld placed one hand on her head. "You were perfect, young one."

"What- what – the meaning of this—outrage!" Globb spluttered.

Obi-Wan clipped his weapon back in place at his belt. "As you were saying, we must keep this _perfectly legal._"

The Nemoidian crumpled into a chair. "Yes, all right, all right. The cargo… "He held out a beseeching hand to Mynn. "Surely we can work out a mutually agreeable compromise?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

"This isn't very comfortable," Zhoa complained, mildly.

Obi-Wan released a short breath and wriggled his left toes, wondering _why_ he had agreed to this bantha-brained arrangement. "Another reason to hate flying," he replied.

The Nautolan padawan giggled and squirmed herself into an even more cramped position. Effectively wedged into the all but non-existent space between Obi-Wan's knees and the Delta's console, she would have put many a professional contortionist to shame. Her weight, however, still threatened to cut off circulation to his feet.

"Did Master really have to take Premier Mynn back _himself?_ I mean, couldn't he just get a shuttle?"

The Phoeeban prime minister had usurped Zhoa's special jumpseat behind Feld in the other fighter; the loss of her privileged position in the double cockpit seemed to provoke a special kind of resentment.

"You aren't _attached_ to that particular _seat,_ are you, Zhoa?"

He could only see the top of her headtails; these dusked to a mottled olive.

"Padawan."

Slim shoulders drooping, the young Jedi confessed in a mortified whisper. "I'm hiding a _pet_ under the acceleration cushion."

Happily,she could not see _his _ grin – and he was far too adept at shielding to give himself away. "Pets are forbidden, Zhoa. Which you must know, or else you would not be _hiding_ one."

"It was just an accident!" the girl protested. "He was inside my cloak and I didn't notice until too late and he's very nice, he's a drassil lizard and he has _such _a beautiful fringe, it sticks up when he's excited and he has a very nice pink tongue and he's ever so handsome. And smart, too. And he only looks fierce- he's very gentle on the inside. I can tell, in the Force."

"Oh?"

"You would like him, Master Obi-Wan. He's just like you."

"I s_ee_." They broke free of the gravitational well and made for clear space, where the hyperdrive rings awaited. "All the same, you are going to tell your master about this stowaway of yours, and then the two of you will find him a suitable new environment. Besides, you may think he's cute now but he'll grow to be a pest, given enough time. Pathetic life forms are like that."

Zhoa's dubiety leaked across her amateurish shields, but he ignored it. She would learn in time – adoption seldom paid. A cynical smirk briefly graced his features. One had only to make the acquaintance of Master Pertha – or his nefarious junior consort, Master Jinn – to grasp the truth of this adage.

"Master? I was just thinking. It must truly have been the will of the Force that the Nemoidinas' cargo holds malfunctioned just when they did…. I mean, that automatic jettison provided just the perfect solution to the problem at hand!"

Obi-Wan's brows rose very delicately. "Indeed it did."

"But… how did you and my master know that would happen? Or did you? And if you didn't, then how were you sure? I mean, you seemed so confident you could settle the dispute, but without that coincidence… oh. Sorry."

"There is no such thing as coincidence, Zhoa."

"I know, but… but… what about my other point?"

The young Knight opened his ship to ship comm. Frequency and hailed the remaining members of the squadron. "A very wise acquaintance of mine is fond of saying that a solution _will_ present itself; it behooves a Jedi therefore merely to be patient and listen."

"So… you were waiting and listening to the Force, when we were negotiating with the Trade Federation?" the tiny padawan earnestly pressed, head tilted to one side.

"Well." Obi-Wan canted to starboard, and looped the Delta in a wide arc. "There's no harm in taking a _proactive_ approach_, _either, now is there?"

A triumphant crow filled their cockpit as Garen Muln's artificially magnified voice reverberated across the comm. "Stagg Four, reporting to rendezvous. Mission objective achieved - no collateral damage."

"Stagg Three, right here," Reeft chimed in.

"No trouble making an exit?" Hartstagg Alpha inquired.

The two missing Deltas appeared in formation, a point or two ahead. They waggled their thrusters, clearly enjoying the afterglow of a successfully completed _solo_ assignment.

"Nope. Jettisoned our bad selves out with the last box, and the droids swooped in for a pick up after we hit bottom."

Garen snorted. "He over-romanticizes it. I had to endure Reeft's _musk_ at close quarters for fifteen minutes – in freefall – and let's just say the anti-grav propulsion buffers on those cargo crates are chiszzk. I need physical therapy for the bruises and whiplash."

"Hey," his fellow padawan brightly suggested. "There's a place over on Rugosa where you can hire a Twi'Lek masseuse to-"

"I have Zhoa here with me," Obi-Wan curtly interjected, staving off disaster by a narrow margin.

"Yeah, Reeft, you salacious reprobate. Cheers, Zhoa! See any action in the diplomatic arena?"

"I was under the table, mostly," the small Nautlan admitted, shyly.

Her fellow apprentices guffawed in delight. "Blast it! How many times have I _longed _to be under the table instead of at the table during negotiations?" Garen lamented.

Reeft moaned in sympathy. "Or swap it out for a banquet table. Stars' end… she's a smart one."

"So, Kenobi," his irrepressible accomplice continued. "Are you going to commend us to the Council for 'timely and effective action in the field, with minimal supervision'?"

Obi-Wan's answering chuckle was dark-edged. "What action, my friends? As I recall, your role in this operation was extraordinarily clandestine."

"Damn you, Obi, you scheming gundark! You did that on purpose – rob us of all the glory so we can't rank up on you. I sense jealous insecurity."

"That's just Reeft's belly growling, Gar."

The subject of this jest protested hotly. "He's not _attuned_ to my innards!"

"Thank the _Force,"_ Garen scoffed. "If I felt a disturbance every time you were about to let off a-"

"But what did they _do?"_ Zhoa insisted, in manifest confusion.

"They admired our ambassadorial skills from a safe distance," Obi-Wan blithely informed her. Eventually, when they're old enough, I'll actually let them into the room during live negotiations."

He toggled the comm. Interface to standby before either libeled padawan could make a retort, and sailed smugly into the docking clamps of his assigned hyperdrive ring.

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Having just read – or perhaps I should say, read between the lines of- your latest mission report, I must congratulate you on having reached that most essential of milestones. It is a poor student who does not at some time surpass his teacher; here, I think, we have finally reached that enviable goal. And I am fairly certain that the Council also sees the matter for what it is, and is suitably impressed. After all, there is no such thing as coincidence._

_Master Dooku and I spoke at length yesterday evening – regarding you, of course. There is very little else he and I share in common, and even this topic is fraught with peril. He still believes your prodigious talents to be wasted upon the Rim Patrol, and desires to know more of this Dark presence you sense in meditation. I told him very little, for what you shared with me was spoken in confidence._

_Besides, my old master is highly distracted by current political affairs – his homeworld, Serreno, has openly refused to comply with the Universal Protection Act – a far more meaningful insurrection than the pint-pot rebellion brewing on Phoeeb. Without the support of the galaxy's most affluent systems, the entire scheme will fail, as it relies on the shunting of vast funds outward from Core to Rim. The Senate fears that other wealthy star systems will follow in Serreno's wake; you can well imagine which among them are held in greatest suspicion. The legislature is more bilaterally divided than ever; and the Chancellor is flailing helplessly in the midst of such strife. Dooku's patrician sensibilities will not permit him to consider the need of impoverished worlds so far outside the range of cultural hegemony, nor will his pride tolerate the imposition of such demands upon a powerful and self-sufficient sovereignty. Though, I must admit, he has several legitimate and worrisome points about the dictatorial and capricious nature of recent Senate rulings – the vote more and more frequently is swayed by the needs of the corporate sector, or partisan extremists. The common good, and the middle ground, are more obscured by greed and empty idealism, day by day. Compromise has been replaced by the pendulum swing of petty victories, and public-mindedness by the avaricious squabbling of carrion birds over a dying corpse, every special interest group jockeying for its share of budget and privilege._

_In a word, the Senate is _corrupt,_ and I am not afraid to say it._ _So perhaps Dooku and I have more in common than I am inclined to admit. _

_It is a mercy of the Force that he long ago declined the hereditary seat on Serreno – he would be planetary ruler there by birthright- I do not know if ever he told you. And one of the richest and most powerful men in the galaxy, to boot. And what a tyrant he might be – or any of us, given such power. Jedi asceticism is not only for the sake of personal discipline, but also for the protection of the innocent. _

_I am rambling, and can well imagine your impertinent smirk and the inevitable reminder of my encroaching senectitude._

_May the Force be with you._

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Qui-Gon. I was sorry to have missed you yet again. Your news regarding the present uproar in the Senate comes as no surprise. Do you remember that dreadful legislative debriefing I attended in your stead during our last furlough? For which act of selfless altruism you still owe me, by the way. I could have predicted the fallout from the proposed changes, even then. Besides that, Master Tinn has been following the holo-net's pastel-tinted "news coverage" for some weeks, and was amusingly caustic about its implications. Master Dooku is not the only Council member to wallow in disgust at the state of our Republic's noble leaders._

_We haven't time to pine for utopian solutions here, however; the latest crisis to evolve is one demanding my utmost attention. Feld has at last discovered that his padawan is quite human and fallible. Well, fallible anyway. Technically she's Nautolan, but you know what I mean. The occasion of her fall from grace will amuse you , Master: apparently the youngling smuggled home a pet from some world or other, a drassil lizard upon which she has bestowed the moniker "Obi-San." I have not asked, and shall abstain from ever doing so. She then proceeded to hide the existence of this pathetic life form from her master for several weeks, feeding and coddling the creature in secret, for fear he would make her relinquish it. _

_The deception, however mild, has created a shocking tempest; I cannot say which little girl is more heartbroken by the implied betrayal: Zhoa or Feld. I have been called in to counsel the padawan regarding detachment and the binding oaths of apprenticeship, and also to advise Feld on appropriate punishment for such wicked infraction of the sacred precepts of our Order._

_Have you any sage insight to offer? Besides an injunction to keep a straight face, a feat which I cannot possibly accomplish without the Force's aid._

_Fear not – a full account of this tragedy's unfolding shall not be denied you._

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Ah, do not mistake inconsequential circumstance for a proportionate triviality of meaning; though Zhoa's infraction is mild in aspect, the profound lesson for both master and padawan remains. I need not remind you of this, although I will admit our own history played itself out upon a more dramatic scale. _

_Zhoa is your friend Feld's first student – and the realization that he is charged not with the upbringing of a sweet angel but with the gradual domestication of a willful and passionate child, is one he should be grateful to have made. Disillusionment is the beginning of wisdom, is it not? In your case, of course, there was no danger of making such an initial mistake, for you took pains from the very outset to make it clear I had on my hands an incomparable and unabashed brat._

_I shall be gone for some days – I have agreed to accompany Master Pertha on a joint recruitment and exotic specimen collecting trip. Do not think it, my young friend, much less say it aloud. Or I will volunteer you to escort him on the next expedition._

_May the Force keep you._


	15. Chapter 15

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"Ready, Zhoa?"

Feld's diminutive apprentice sat forlornly upon the Delta's wingtip, feet dangling a scant centimeter off the deck. On her lap, nestled between wide cloak sleeves, sat a small plastoid box. In one corner of this translucent cubicle was curled her stowaway drassil; a half-nibbled rind of muja and a dead _blicket_ occupied the opposite extremity of the enclosure.

"His appetite is off," the Nautolan lamented.

Obi-Wan sat beside her, flicking his cloak hem to one side expertly and propping his hands upon his knees. "So might yours be, were you kept prisoner in such fashion."

Zhoa's shoulders slumped. "I never meant him any harm. And , and… I think my master is very disappointed in me. I've never made him _mad_ before."

The young Knight gazed up at the overhead illuminators, briefly. "Oh, if you ask me, I would tell you that Feld was born _mad…_ but the disappointment isn't what you should focus upon. Center on the lesson learned."

The tiny padawan sighed, stubby headtails drooping disconsolately. "I practiced deception…." She sniffed and clutched the box tighter. "I just thought.. I knew Master would not allow it."

"Well, then, why would you keep the lizard in the first place, if you knew it was wrong?"

"It didn't seem wrong to me, though!" Zhoa protested, with uncharacteristic vehemence. Her black eyes glossed, a rare gleam of fire kindling in their opaque depths. "I still don't see why! Lots of things are forbidden – lots of, of _big_ things, important things that ordinary people have and want. Why do all the little ones have to be too? Why can't we have _anything?"_

The question echoed down the corridors of the Temple far more often than an outsider would think; Jedi younglings were not _indoctrinated_ to the point of mindless acquiescence, for wisdom and strength lay in willing submission, not blind conformity.

"Why do you think?"

"I don't!" Feld's apprentice claimed, a note of truculence hitherto unheard in her voice.

He ignored this sign of impending turbulence. Zhoa was on the brink of true adolescence, and – mercifully- not _his_ sole priority and responsibility. He could merely dispense insight as he saw fit and leave his friend to deal with the subsequent squalls and storms. "Let me ask you a question. How long can you hold your breath?"

"Ten minutes," the girl promptly replied.

"Can you run ten klicks without stopping? Over obstacles?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think you could hold your breath ten minutes if you never first managed to hold it one?"

"Welll….no. you have to practice bit by bit and increase your time."

"Yes. And do you think you could run ten klicks if you could not run two or three without tiring?"

Zhoa shook her head, tails swinging.

"Then look at it this way: you cannot _hope_ to bridle your passions and resist temptation, in the most important of circumstances - when life and honor are on the line, and the stakes are very high - if you cannot even govern your impulses and attachments regarding smaller things."

The youngling did not make immediate reply, but cradled the lizard's box against her chest, expression locked down.

Obi-Wan stood. "I'll round up the others. We should go."

Zhoa nodded, silently.

He hesitated a moment longer, feeling some thought hanging, unvoiced, between them.

"Do you think… is Master going to un-attach me too?" the padawan inquired, delicate mouth turned down sharply at the corners.

_Oh._ He had not considered this inevitable and predictable side-effect of Zhoa's first significant misdemeanor. Having never strayed far from the straight and narrow, she had no context for discipline, nor any inherent assurance that it did not signify permanent displeasure on Feld's part. Perhaps, Obi-Wan ruefully reflected, he had overlooked the obvious because his first months – weeks- _days-_ as Qui-Gon's padawan had been spent in a protracted tussle between two strong, stubborn spirits, the elder of which had asserted its alpha status with all the rough affection of a niffenbear cuffing its recalcitrant cub upside the head. Zhoa and Feld had wandered their own, far less strife-fraught path; this first obstacle proved daunting on more than one level.

He summoned up a mischievous smile. "I don't think you'll be that lucky," he told her.

* * *

Vantooine's pristine shoreline traced a sinuous line of tumbled rock and black sand from horizon to horizon, an endless demarcation of the world into glittering sea and dark wilderness. Sharp-pinnacled forests stood upon the ramparts, watchful and foreboding.

"Nice," Reeft morosely commented, as Stagg squadron skimmed along the coast at a scant hundred meter altitude, a line of soaring thranctills in search of a roosting-place.

"Oh dear," Zhoa murmured over the ship to ship comm. "Are you _sure_ this is the right place, Master?"

Feld sighed. "I told you - diversified open ecosystem, with indigenous biocompatible species."

Garen chuckled. "Lots of other lizards, Zho. He can gather himself a harem and propagate like wildfire."

"Oh dear," the Nautolan peeped.

"He's not a _Jedi_ lizard, Zo-zo," Reeft reminded her. "It's in his nature. And he's not fulfilling his nature in that plastoid crate."

They settled on a strip of unsullied sand, high above the tide line. The astromechs whistled their disapprobation of the salt-air, complaining of its corrosive qualities, and were promptly hushed.

"We'll be back in a jiff, eh?" Feld promised the disgruntled droids. "We just have to bid a friend farewell."

Garen scanned the surroundings with a pair of macro-nocs. "Look at _this," _he whistled. "Jackpot!"

Zhoa clutched the small container in which her beloved drassil was presently incarcerated. As though aware of its impending liberation, the brightly patterned creature scrabbled against the translucent walls of its prison, fringe rising in agitation.

Reeft snatched his friend's 'nocs and adjusted the focusing dials. "What is that?" he wondered.

The magnifying lenses flew from his grasp into Obi-Wan's hand. The young Knight trained them on the curious object nestled above the tree-tops less than a klick away. "Luxury cruise-liner?" he guessed. "No…. too shabby… what _is_ that?"

Garen nudged him in the ribs. "It's a pleasure barge, gundark brains. Casino and bar, star to star."

"You seem disturbingly familiar with such lowlife venues," Obi-Wan remarked, dryly.

"Let's not ask too many questions about Master Rhara's pedagogical methods, eh?" Feld suggested.

"I don't think that would be a healthy place for my drassil," Zhoa managed to squeak.

"No, no, no. _You_ go release what's-his-name and Reeft and I will make a reconnaissance of that foreign vessel. Make sure their liquor license is up to date and they've got a permit to dock here, routine check up."

"I don't think so," Obi-Wan objected.

Feld Spruu clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll accompany Zhoa. You better go with these two _pu'errki_ . Keep them out of trouble, eh, my friend?"

"Oh yes," Garen simpered. "Grant us the honor of your guidance and sobering influence, Master Disaster."

Reeft chortled quietly.

"I'll sober your _influence_ ," the victim of their mockery threatened, leading the way toward the trees' shadowed ranks . A narrow footpath wended between lichen-gilded colonnades, dust motes and dusky moths rising lazily toward the humid cathedral ceiling. "Coming?"

* * *

They regretted their cloaks after a scant fifteen minutes' hike and discarded them by the wayside, folded in three neat piles upon a root-locked boulder protruding into their erratic path. The trail was pocked with countless hoof-prints, cloven and whole, tiny and wide, and flanked to either side by brambles and underbrush, innumerable native flora they could not identify.

"Think the berries are edible, though," Reeft remarked, popping one succulent blue orb into his mouth.

"You're carrying him if he keels over dead," Obi-Wan told Garen.

"How much further do you reckon?" the latter person griped, swatting a blood-sucking gnat off his tunic collar.

The young Knight pointed up an overgrown scree. "There – they've docked at the summit of that rise, on a plateau. If we climb the slope, we'll come right up on them."

Garen blew out a long breath. "Barves. They settle on unpopulated systems like this – scenic view and no docking berth to purchase at a port. Passengers don't care, so long's the view's pretty. They're mostly too sloggered to notice where they are anyway. This one might cruise around a hundred different planets before looping back to wherever it originates – folks on board will spend their last credit before the trip's done."

Reeft shaded his deepset eyes with both hands. "Climbing is thirsty work, even with cables."

"That's why we're investigating, Reefs! Besides, we never celebrated my twenty-second. Or yours, or Obi's, for that matter. Come on, Zho will need some time to have a good cry over that blasted drassil- thingummy. Might as well give 'er some privacy."

* * *

The minimal security crew posted outside the battered pleasure cruiser's ramp was non-plussed at the arrival of three grimy and sweating strangers, but a simple mind trick convinced them of the newcomers' general amiability and right to enter.

The vessel's lower decks had, as Garen surmised, presented a simalcrum of a Core world nightclub, replete with dance floors, gaming machines and tables, and a gaudily ornamented bar. Patrons of a dozen species milled about the enclosure, jostling and shouting, laughing and imbibing an exotic panoply of intoxicants. Purple smoke veiled the ceiling and clung to the floor at their boots. Strobe lights and throbbing synth-music shattered sensation into a giddying kaleisdoscope.

Garen grinned wolfishly, dragging Obi-Wan toward the bar by one elbow. "C'mon, Kenobi. I've got a wager to win here."

Reeft sidled up to the polished counter and nonchalantly popped a handful of nuts into his mouth. "Disgusting," he remarked.

"You're _eating_ them," Obi-Wan pointed out, shouting above the ubiquitous din.

"No – this," Reeft explained around a full mouth. He gestured idly over the debauched environs. "Testament to sentient depravity." He scooped up another handful of salted nuts. "But you know: perfectly legal."

"My friend will have a Supernova,"Garen hollered at the bartender. "Double, no ice, extra shot of _eir."_

Bodies seethed and pulsed on all sides, a frenetic ocean of enjoyment. An electric orange elixir was slammed onto the counter in front of the young Jedi.

A chill cascaded down Obi-Wan's back. "Wait a moment."

Garen rolled his eyes. "Do _not _tell me you've got a bad feeling about this!"

"No… not here. Something else… I can't quite…"

Reeft gripped him by the shoulders. "Don't make us pay Master Jinn. We can't afford to lose this bet."

"What bet?" The chill solidified into certainty. Danger, raptor-like, sudden as summer lightning, forked fire sundering present from past, now from then. He stood, hand going to his 'saber hilt though the peril was far, far away.

"He says your corset's laced too tight to have any fun. Damn it, Reefs, I guess he was right."

Irked, their companion seized the electric orange concoction and downed it in one asphyxiating go.

"_In the name of-!" _ he choked, shoving past his marveling comrades. "Now. We need to go. Something's happened…And Qui-Gon did _not_ say that."

* * *

Whether swayed simply by his conviction, or by the consonance of their own intuition, Garen and Reeft hurried at his heels all the way down the incline.

_Bad feeling_ would be an understatement for the certidue blossoming like molten magma beneath Obi-Wan's ribs; he should _never_ have agreed to the padawans' frivolous injunction. What need had they to investigate a pleasure barge? It was an idle distraction at best, a shameful indulgence in base passions masquerading as innocent camaraderie.

He should long, long ago have outgrown such idiocy – and more to the point, he was _supposed_ to guide his two rambunctious colleagues down a better path, not play accomplice to their foolishness.

By the time they reached the forest's shade again, he was sick with the bitter knowledge of failure. But Melida- Daan had taught him this much: a Jedi had no _use_ for self-pity. He grasped his commlink in one scratched hand, perspiration running down his back, dread throbbing behind his temples, the Supernova buzzing blearily in his veins - and waited for Feld to respond.

No reply.

No reply.

No reply.

"_Blast it."_

Garen and Reeft's faces were drawn with concentration, but they too came up blank. The Twi"lek was a void within the Force, a dark ripple of echoing surprise and pain.

"He's hurt," Garen murmured.

Reeft set off through the thick foliage underfoot, forging a direct path in the direction Zhoa and her mentor had gone not an hour earlier. Overhead, carving a white gash of condensation across the sky's vault, a predatory ship veered off and up, streaking toward infinity. Another followed, then another.

Obi-Wan stopped dead in his tracks. "Paxellian scouts. Those area short-distance recon fighters." His chest tightened with new anxiety. "They're on a slave raiding expedition."

"Feld's still not answering," Reeft observed, checking his own commlink.

"Not good. Let's go."

* * *

They found Feld in a small clearing, on his knees, the Force warped into adamantine walls about him, a black and constricting fortification damming a raging torrent of anger. Indigo blood spattered his tunics, and ran freely from one severely gashed headtail; blaster burns scored his tunics, and his left arm hung crooked and useless at his side.

A trampled drassil lizard corpse lay crushed a meter away, the overturned carton shattered into jagged fragments amid churned leaf litter and mud.

"Feld!"

Agonized eyes rose to meet those of his astonished comrades. "Zhoa," he croaked, voice serrated with unshed grief.

Obi-Wan dropped to one knee beside him, reeling in the effluvia of the other Knight's ill-contained fury and despair.. "Where is she?"

"They took her," the Twi'Lek ground out, teeth meshed against a tide of bitter emotion. He heaved in a single gasping breath, good arm clutching at his side. Vibrant pain spiked through the Force, skewering them all in place. "A dozen of them – ambush… I … failed." He slumped forward, limbs slackening.

Garen and Reeft looked upon the spectacle in horror, cocky self-assurance wiped clean off their faces, the need for immediate, decisive command stamped in its place.

"…Obi?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

"Reeft. Stabilize Feld and have the droids bring your two fighters back here. Take him back to the outpost and stand by."

The Dressalian nodded, tersely, long fingers already gently probing the fallen Knight for yet- undiscovered injuries, the Force coiling in subtle tendrils, golden white wisps of vital energy. "Will do."

Garen watched, mouth a tight line. "This is my fault."

"You're coming with me. We've got to beat those scouts back to their orbital ship." Obi-Wan set off through the forest at a full sprint, hurdling fallen trunks and shoving through obstructing foliage heedless of any risk or danger but that of arriving _too late._

He was already too late.

"I'm sorry," Garen panted, crashing through a screen of flexible branches hard on his heels.

Obi-Wan vaulted over a large boulder and slithered down a muddy incline, ducking beneath whipping boughs and dodging erratically around green-slicked trunks. The ocean crashed and heaved against his ear drums, counterpoint to his racing pulse.

Almost there.

"Did you hear me?" Garen shouted at him, as they pelted across the hot sand.

Obi-Wan skidded to a halt, then leapt onto his Delta's wing, banging on the canopy. "Open up, RG! Let's go!"

The droids' heads spun in consternation as they released the canopy locks and primed thrusters. The other two fighters were already gone, summoned to Reeft's assistance.

Garen sprang up beside his childhood friend, seizing one arm. "Obi!"

"Let go, Garen! We're in a _hurry,_ for Force's sake!"

"Listen to me – I'm sorry, I –"

"It's _my_ fault," Obi-Wan snarled, shaking free. He slid into his cockpit and lifted the lightweight ship on repulsors. "Coming or not? I don't have time to waste on this."

"Kark your sense of honor," Garen spat, nevertheless dashing for his own open cockpit and lifting his Delta into the sky in a howling blur of speed.

The ship-to-ship comm channel kicked in a minute later, as they blazed past the planet's abundant cloud cover.

"You don't have to be the noble party here, Kenobi," Garen growled. "It was my idea to split up. That kriffing pleasure barge – I can own my mistakes, you know!"

"It's _my_ fault, Garen. End of dispute. What are your scanners showing?"

They rattled past the upper atmosphere, compensators strained to maximum, the astromechs protesting their feckless navigational style.

"Nothing yet," the padawan murmured, tension bleeding through his voice, through the Force, through the scarlet stained nebula looming in the distance.

"Blast, blast, blast," Obi-Wan breathed, eloquence deserting him, panic clawing for admittance. The Paxellians _must not_ jump to hyperspace before he located their ship. Please, no – _Force, no._

He couldn't bear to think what abuse might await Zhoa Pleromata at her captors' hands. Especially if they discovered she was a Jedi. Bile rose in his throat.

"I'm trying to apologize, not argue," Garen insisted.

"I don't need your pathetic apology, Garen! The fault is mine –I Iet myself be distracted by your frivolity. I should be _skinned_ for encouraging you and Reeft in your shallow, meaningless, idiotic vices!"

His companion retorted with a strangled yelp. "You snot-sucking _pompous_ arse, Kenobi! _ I'm sorry, _ all right?"

"Anger won't help us, Garen!"

"Really? Then what's yo_ur excuse?"_

Obi-Wan slammed the 'link connection off. A terse query appeared on the astromech's interface screen.

"Yes, pilot error," he barked, clenching his jaw and laying on more speed as the active scanners located a massive vessel in high orbit along a counter-rotational axis. The Paxellian warship. His pulse ratcheted up another notch; there was no sign of the escaping scout ships, which meant they were already safely docked, their prisoner entombed within the massive ship. It could jump to lightspeed at any moment, and he had no way of tracking it, of guessing its final destination, of _intervening_ before…..

He raced ahead of both thought and fear, Garen plummeting through endless void beside him in a desperate gamble with Fate.

The massive Paxellian freighter sluggishly accelerated, preparing for a hyperspace jump. How long, low long? "RG, what's that thing's terminal velocity and how many seconds do we have to match it?"

The droid was smarter than it looked, for it cottoned on quite quickly. The ensuing string of shrill bleeps bore no translation.

"_I don't care what your safety programming parameters dictate! _ Synchronize acceleration with that ship and lock magnetic clamps to the hull!"

His copilot spewed further imprecation at him via the translator, which he promptly switched off as well. Now or never, this or nothing. There is no try, only do or do not. Zhoa, and Feld, and his own honor hung in the balance. He reverted the helm to manual and pushed the tiny ship to the brink of overload, careening closer and closer to the hulking Paxellian ship, the dents and meteoric scorch marks on its hull visible at this ridiculous, dangerous proximity, every bolt and welding strip and scratch and scuff and….

He locked on, ramming forward against the crash restraints as the slight difference in impetus made itself felt. Somewhere behind him, against all expectation, Garen's Delta scraped a long comet tail of sparks against the huge freighter's side and battened on to the hull in similar manner. They peered at each other through the frosting transparisteel of the cockpit canopies, a pair of metallic barnacles clinging to some primordial whaladon's hide.

Garen grinned widely, and saluted.

Obi-Wan exhaled, heart battering a disbelieving staccato against his rib cage, and switched the comm connection back to active.

"You do realize this is clinically insane _and_ potentially fatal?" he inquired, deadpan.

"Absolutely," came the glib reply. "Wouldn't have it any other way, my friend."

"And I'm sorry. This is my failure, not yours."

"Wrong again, Kenobi."

"We'll settle it later. Presuming we survive."

"May the Force be with you," Garen gulped, as the stars around them blurred into weeping silver trails, the smeared tapestry of warping space.

* * *

For someone who hated flying, Obi-Wan ruefully reflected, he had a morbid propensity for inserting himself into extreme piloting situations. Hyperspace was bad enough under normal conditions; _this,_ he decided, was nothing short of mania.

The Force turned inside out, taking most his viscera with it. He closed his eyes, centered on the _present moment,_ and stalwartly blocked from consciousness his niggling awareness that the _slightest_ malfunction in the magnetic clamp-anchors fastening his Delta to the massive ship's outer hull would result in a cataclysm fit to give his pet phrase "blasted to oblivion" a whole new dimension of personal meaning.

After a measureless infinity which his scrambled senses gauged as approximately two months in duration, but which reason told him was likelier an hour or two, the Paxellian war-ship reverted. The inevitable _lurch_ this engendered flung both Deltas spinning off into space, tiny droplets sent spattering off the tail of some behemoth sea monster.

It took a long moment in tumbling free-fall before RG53 managed to restore order to the fighter's blitzed circuitry. When the necessary repairs had been effected, the droid straightened them out, seized control of the helm, and sent a most inappropriately censorious message over the translator.

"Stars' sake," the young Knight grumbled, running both hands through his hair and collapsing against the backrest with a loud sigh.

"Woo-hoo!" a cheerful voice sounded over the ship-to-ship. "You take hitch-hiking to a whole new level, Obes."

"Yes, well." Garen's enjoyment of the ride was …incomprehensible. But he was glad to know the padawan had survived to brag about the exploit later.

They gazed about them, noting the bleak curve of a planet looming below, and the slow descent of their host ship into its murky atmosphere.

"Coordinates?" Obi-Wan demanded. RG obligingly pulled up their new location on the nav-comp.

Garen whistled between his teeth. "Paxel 5. Holy chisszzk. We are _way_ past Republic borders."

Which meant they had no jurisdiction beyond the sort inspired by a 'saber's blade. "That simplifies matters."

"So…. What next?"

It took some cajoling to convince RG53 to relinquish control of the helm again, but Obi-Wan managed it with a heady combination of bribery and threat. "We're following the leader," he announced, powering down toward the obscure depths of Paxel's swirling pink clouds.

* * *

They landed on the hither side of nowhere.

"Nice place," Garen remarked, steeping off his Delta's wing onto parched and dusty rock. Below them, a barren steppe sprawled , an expanse of wind-scourged land punctuated here and there by rough outcroppings of stone. Iron-clad fortresses crowned several of these, wild pennant flying in the sharp breeze. Aircraft rose and fell around these dark centers, drones buzzing about their foreboding hives.

The freighter descended toward the nearest, a citadel hewn of living rock, walls like jagged teeth rising from the tormented face of the earth. Tiny figures paraded upon the battlements; a thousand pricks of light pocked the sheer sides of the compound. The massive ship sank within the open jaws of its home and disappeared from view behind its menacing bastion towers. "Friendly too," Obi-Wan replied.

"You know this world?"

"No.. but I've had dealings with the Paxellians. And researched their home planet, out of historical curiosity, before that. "

Garen chafed his hands against his upper arms. "We left our cloaks behind like a couple of _novices._"

"Speak for yourself." Although it wasn't an illegitimate complaint; the biting wind was indeed frigid. But there was nothing to be done for it. "We'll make do." Obi-Wan set off down the slope, picking his way among treacherous footholds, tiny avalanches of dust and rock slithering past his boots.

"So… no wonder the natives are such barves," Garen snorted. "With this hellhole to wake up to every morning."

"Oh it gets better," his friend retorted. "The equatorial region is rife with absolutely inhospitable jungles, and the moderate zones are largely occupied by vast slave-driven agri-complexes and mining colonies. It's considered a mark of honor to dwell in the wastes – a warrior does not crave luxury and so on."

"Nice," the padawan snorted. "So they're philosophical, self-abnegating barves. I stand corrected."

"Admirable, from a certain point of view," Obi-Wan allowed. "But Master Seva says that love of true beauty surpasses mere ascetical privation as a source of inner strength."

"That's a comfort." Garen rolled his eyes.

They slid to the slope's base and squinted across the dust-veiled plain. A line of black specks moved, ant-like, toward the distant fortress' main gates.

"So….Kenobi: you've had dealings with these people before. That gives us a strategic advantage, right?"

"I hardly think so, considering I impersonated one of their deities last time we met. It wasn't exactly a conventional ambassadorial role."

His companion chortled heartily at this revelation. "Okay. Remind me to download _that_ mission report from the Archives when we get back."

But Obi-Wan's mind was already formulating their next tactical maneuver. The city's walls would be heavily guarded; breaching the Paxellians defenses would require ingenuity rather than strength of arms. "Those soldiers, or whatever they are." He pointed to the meandering line of figures. "That may be our ticket inside."

* * *

Crouched behind a splintered spur of rock, huddling close for protection against the invasive cold, the Jedi waited for the laggardly foot-soldiers to pass. Teeth chattering and breath clouding into sculptured vapor, they counted down the seconds until the shuffling squadron drew near enough for action. Wrapped in heavy furs over their ungainly armor, the Paxellians were unrecognizable except by their signature rolling gait and the brutish huffing of their breath. Heavy boots tramped sullenly across cold-packed earth. Muttered complaints in a rasping, guttural tongue floated on the whipping wind.

"They're not happy campers," Garen whispered.

"No… wait! I know who these are…"

The nearest of the brutes stamped and huffed to a halt within hailing distance of their shelter. The Jedi crouched lower, smoothing the Force's impalpable currents about themselves, melting into _imperceptible_ stillness.

The remainder of the sojourners tramped past, hurling laughing insults at their weary comrades. They dwindled away over the next uneven ridge, and were gone. Obi-Wan caught Garen's eye and jerked his chin toward the disconsolate pair smoking hasha-weed together within the scant wind-shadow of a glacial boulder.

_Do or do not._

"Right," Garen mouthed, eyes glittering.

They sprang in unison.


	17. Chapter 17

**Legacy 3**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"Well," Garen Muln observed, "We cut a splendid figure."

Tramping doggedly across the bitter waste side by side, muffled head to toe in cumbersome Paxellian armor and heavy furs, they doubtless did present a striking portrait of raw barbarity.

"My helmet has _horns,"_ Obi-Wan groused, breath escaping in a ghostly and disdainful puff of white vapor.

His companion chortled quietly. "And your cloak is dragging enough to be a tail. Maybe we should have found some ….uh, _shorter_ victims."

The young Knight's eyes flitted sideways, sardonically. "Or ones with a smaller cranial capacity… your headgear appears to be slipping."

Garen made a swift adjustment to his oversized and ungainly helm, and quickened his pace. A nocturnal wind clawed at their heavy garments; shadows lengthened dramatically across the barren expanse. The citadel's outer walls loomed closer, blank and expressionless faces staring at the newcomers through slatted eyes. Nerves jangling in anticipation, the would-be intruders slowed and loitered about the fringes of a milling group waiting for entry.

"This is the sticky part," Obi-Wan decided.

"As opposed to what we just did?" his friend whispered incredulously. "In case you forgot, we jumped a couple of the natives and took their gear."

"They donated it willingly, Garen. That's completely different."

A loud snort. "You going to explain how you convinced them to do that? 'Cause I've never seen a mind trick that good."

"No mind trick. They recognized me: Olokk, god of chaos and mischief. I have something of an intergalactic reputation, you know."

"Oh, you have a reputation all right- but apotheosis is pushing it."

Obi-Wan smiled tightly. "I told you I knew those two – they were among the warriors whom I encountered on Niffrendi. This group ," – he gestured to the disconsolate throng outside the massive city gates – "are outcasts, members of society who have been shamed by their failure or weakness. Generally such shortcomings are punished by a one to five year sentence of exile. They are only allowed into the settlements under cover of darkness, and even then they must sleep in the streets."

"So why would those unfortunate buffoons cooperate with a god who basically ensured they were reduced to pariahs on their homeworld?"

Olokk's smile widened, fractionally. "I told them I was pleased with their fidelity and that I would wreak havoc on their persecutors if they would give us their equipment. The god of chaos is notorious for his deceptive maneuvers. It was in character."

The padawan shook his head. "So you lied."

Affronted, Obi-Wan stiffened his spine. "A Jedi keeps his word. I have every intention of wreaking prodigious havoc, and you are going to help me."

This struck his companion with a new thought. "Hey! Am I an assistant deity or something, then?"

"You're my cupbearer."

"You son of a –"

At that moment, the fortress' ponderous gates groaned open, parting a meter's width to admit a single file of scapegoats and wanderers into the city. Overhead the first stars glared down on the unhappy tableau; the night settled in earnest, a death-rattle wind shuddering in the frosty air.

"Hope those poor barves we left behind are all right in this," Garen muttered.

"They'll dig a _meerzhach,_ and wait for dawn. In the meantime, we've work to do."

The line of outlaws shuffled forward through the narrow gauntlet, the two disguised trespassers meekly bringing up the rear. A reeking hail of odiferous garbage was unleashed upon them as they passed between the massive slabs; a few paces inside the citadel proper, they momentarily balked. The ostracized Paxellians ahead were being subjected to a swift but brutal punishment; a line of guards snapped electro-whips across their backs and necks as they hurried past into the shadows and alleys beyond. Not one protested or even howled as the ritual castigation was inflicted upon them.

"Kark," Garen muttered. "Are we…?"

Obi-Wan's brows lowered. "Zhoa," was his terse reply, a reminder of both purpose, and – perhaps – a pang of mutual guilt.

"Right." They moved forward, bracing themselves, and neither protested nor howled when the merciless tongues of fire lanced through their own flesh.

Stumbling into the shelter of a nearby alley, they hustled past the pathetic scrap-fueled fires of their comrades, and found a dank corner in which to divest themselves of the bulkier costume elements. The furs they kept, for the temperature even inside the walls was uncomfortable for humans.

"Damn it, Obi, you certainly know how to have a good time." Garen tossed aside his ill-fitting helmet. "What's next?"

His companion inhaled deeply, as though scenting the invisible wind. He frowned. "You find that freighter, or the dock yards. We need to locate Zhoa… find where they're keeping her. I'll have a look about the city, and work on our exit strategy. We'll have to move quickly when the opportunity presents itself."

"If it presents itself," Garen amended.

Obi-Wan touched his arm, a mute gesture of encouragement. "A solution _always_ presents itself," he declared, with the confidence of a seasoned master. "And if it doesn't, there are always aggressive negotiations."

His friend blew out another cloud of condensed air, a soft bark of laughter. "Right. Wouldn't be the first time we've visited the nine hells together, eh?"

They smiled then, remembering more innocent days and the camaraderie of childhood adventure. The Force warmed, thawing the edge of their shared apprehension, and eased their parting. Garen slipped away into the dark geometry of the city's alleyways, and Obi-Wan melted into the shadows beneath the outer wall, wrapping himself in the Force's obscuring veils.

* * *

There was a place- a grimy quadrangle in the fortress-city's bowels – where the Force was turgid with sorrow; the pain of a thousand sentients sluggishly churned here, coagulated fear clotting the supernal currents.

Obi-Wan came to a crouching halt beneath the central scaffolding, wondering briefly if he had stumbled upon a place of execution, or else something similar… and then he saw the pens, and the empty manacles, the whip upon it shook and the platform upon which the glaaxy's most expensive livestock were paraded before an eager coterie of buyers. His lip curled.

_Slave market._

There were already a few unfortunates locked in cages beneath the heavy platform. Grilled openings at ground level allowed dank, frigid air to seep into these subterranean prisons. He sank further down, pressed his face against the nearest such aperture, and peered intently into the dark within, reaching into the plenum for a sense of _identity,_ for a familiar presence.

_Stars' end._ The selling pen was chock full of children – some of them no older than clan initiates in the Temple… or that odd little urchin on Tatooine, the one called Anakin, who at least dwelled with his mother. Sniffling and whimpers wafted up to his ears, but more telling still was the tympanum-note of silent terror resounding in the Force. He counted his next few breaths, reaching impalpably through the assembly in search of a _particular_ child, for Zhoa's bright sweet signature in the light –

"Hey! You chiszzk-kicker! Get out!"

A disaffected sentinel had wandered round this side of the enclosure; seeing one of the outcasts loitering in a forbidden area, he chucked a jagged shard of stone at the intruder.

Obi-Wan dodged the projectile easily, but made a good show of scuttling away, as would be expected.

"_Farking_ runt!"his persecutor called after him, strolling on his way again, electropike at the ready.

"Size matters not," the young Jedi muttered to himself, as he huddled against the nearest masonry bulwark. Kindling a spark of warmth from the very Force, and holding it suspended between his cupped hands, he nursed his numb fingers back to life and considered his options.

If the Paxellians had concentrated their raid upon juveniles – always desirable on the slave market, as they were considered docile and had a greater life expectancy than their worn and weary elders – there was a good chance Zhoa might end up in this precise place. Extracting her without drawing attention would be difficult.

And more difficult still, the act of _leaving behind _ the others.

_I am not here to free slaves._

He swallowed, fretfully turning his glowing ember of light this way and that. To attempt anything beyond a straightforward rescue would be to court disaster, and to risk not only his own life but Garen and Zhoa's as well. As mission _leader,_ the responsibility lay upon his shoulders, the burden of _choice._

How many were incarcerated down there? Dozens. Scores.

_How can we transport…?_

No. They were not here to … but …

"_Blast_ it." He snuffed the palpitating speck of heat, extinguishing its bright radiance in one closed fist. "I am not here to free slaves," he told the listening Force, the quiet susurration all about him.

There was no answer.

The cold wall behind his back was silent, the air frigid, the moaning night wind incoherent, the few stars above apathetic. The Force itself remained furled, indecipherable, muted. Even the crystal in his saber seemed to chime but faintly, the waning echo of a forgotten music.

Dooku's voice floated in memory: _You squander talent and effort upon stamping out brushfires in the Rims, while the true evil festers here in the Core. Such a mission is an exercise in futility, an imprudent deployment of precious resources. But far be it from me to deny callow youth its quixotic whimsy._

And Qui-Gon's contrapuntal words: _Go. It will be good for you. Even the smallest deed can change the balance of the whole; this is a truth of theLiving Force – all things are interconnected. We are in a symbion circle with even the most pathetic of life forms._

It will be good for you. Go.

He had not come to free slaves.

But, by his oath, he was here to free them now. The Force broke into chorus, a taut canticle, the cold air trilling soundlessly with blood-deep, bone-deep affirmation. _Go, go, go,go._

He crawled forward again, catching the eye of the vexed sentinel. The hulking guard grunted and lumbered near, idly swinging his heavy weapon in one enormous hand.

A subtle motion of the hand, shaping the Force to the contours of a brutish mind, soft banks guiding a tempestuous river's currents. "_You've earned a short respite. Now is a good time to sleep."_

The Paxellian slumped against the platform's base, chin wobbling against his heavy breastplate, wet snores issuing from his throat.

An activated 'saber would alert others to his presence; the weapon's characteristic snap-hiss-hum and brilliant radiance were not conducive to stealth. For situations like these….

One had a Vespari steel knife. The tiny blade cut through the primitive grille bars like bantha-milk butter; a concentrated application of the Force yanked the obstruction free of the surrounding stone. He slid into the narrow opening and down into the cell like a liquid shadow, landing in a crouch amid a circle of astonished younglings. Several moaned and shrieked in terror, until his urgent hushing and a generous wave of persuasive _soothing_ quieted their fears.

He withdrew a glowrod from his belt pouches and broke its seal, casting a limpid golden pool upon the filthy flagstones. Soiled and trembling younglings of many species crouched in the prison's corners. Ten, twenty… forty three in all. Girls, boys, some he could not place. Not a human among them, for humans were rare this far out, but a plucky Twi'Lek, resembling a small and skinny Feld, sidled up to him and peered into his face.

"Jeedi," the youngling decided, pointing at the 'saber's hilt peeping beneath the Paxellian fur. "Jeedi!"

"Shhh!" Just what he needed: a cheering squad to bring down a whole bevy of armed jailors upon their heads.

Eighty six expectant eyes – well, make that eighty seven, the Graan in the corner had three stalks – widened in anticipation of some legendary feat . He settled cross legged upon the floor, inviting them to _listen._ "I'm looking for a friend. A girl, with headtails- many, not lekku but similar, smaller…. " There were no Nautolans among the crowd. He tugged on his hair. "Headtails. Green."

Incomprehension swirled muddily in the Force; a few small heads shook side to side in negation.

"When I find her, we will all leave. But you must listen, and watch for me, and do exactly as I tell you." _Whatever that might be._

A few enthusiastic, desperately hopeful nods. His heart clenched; these children would as willingly trust any stranger who arrived and extended such promises, treacherous or not. Slaves were often seduced into the clutches of worse and yet worse owners by just such means. Their trust was no compliment to his charisma or skill, but only a testament to their inexperience. Still, it was something.

"Are there other children? Younglings? Another place they might be held?"

This proved difficult, and for a long moment he received no reply. Then, hesitantly, the same Twi"lek who had identified him as a Jedi piped up. "There might be a few still inside the ship. So they can be looked at."

The Force shimmered, an arachnid's web laden with black dew.

"Looked at? By whom? Buyers?"

"No," the boy mumbled, eyes shifting away fearfully. "The Beast comes. He looked at us all but said we were wrong. He's looking for someone."

_The Beast?_ The web trembled, a disturbance as delicate and dreadful as death's creeping approach, a monster slinking forward upon the gossamer thread of its own malice. "Who do you mean?"

The Twi"Lek youngster shook his head, blinking rapidly as he tried vainly to escape the Jedi's firm grip.. "He's looking for someone Special. He's horrible. I don't want to talk about it! Please stop!"

Obi-Wan did not relinquish his hold upon the distraught child's bony shoulders. "Please. I need your help to find my friend. Who is the Beast?"

Two enormous amber eyes fixed upon his, glazing over with ill-suppressed fear. "He's, hes… tall. And black and red. He's a demon from the hells – I saw him and his face was…. evil. His eyes are on fire." Tears welled and overflowed, streaking grubby cheeks with unashamed rivulets.

The young Knight abruptly stood, his own heart skipping a single astonished beat as the realization hit him full force. _Ship. The enemy. Here. _

_Garen._

"Don't go anywhere," he barked – an absurd command, one the poor captives must obey whether he willed it or not. A moment later he had shimmied his way back out the narrow grating, and shoved the hewn bars back into place, their appearance plausibly intact.

_Garen. The ship. The enemy. Hatred embodied, anger incarnate, hunger made flesh. _

"Oh Force."

Jedi or not, he ran – something perilously close to fear blazing liquid in his veins.


	18. Chapter 18

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

The citadel's stilted geometry of walls and buttressed towers circled in on itself, a noose tightening about its own center; concentric walls loosely cupped the tumbling array of massive structures – keeps and arcades, marketplace squares and looming public arenas, rough edifices thrown together seemingly haphazardly, their architecture careless of ornament or symmetry, founded on strength alone. Within the third successive curtain, a rambling sort of hangar-pit had been hewn from the foundation stone. In this sunken cavern nested a clutch of large vessels – sleeping draigons curled in their hole.

Obi-Wan surveyed the quiet scene from atop the nearest wall, mantled in both night and the Force's penumbra. Dimmest starlight picked out the running lights on one or two of the hulking and battered freighters. Vaguely predatorial, the leviathans seemed to sleep. Unlike shipyards in the Core, no droids were to be seen tending the mechanical flock. A handful of Paxellians lurked near the landing prongs of one ship, its hull scarred and blackened by innumerable re-entries, or else reckless piloting through ion showers in open space. The ships, like the buildings, were built only for function and never subjected to the engineer's version of coddling.

RG53 woud have been _appalled._

It was a briefly amusing thought, but others far more pressing and dark swiftly overshadowed the spark of humor. At such proximity, he had expected to sense Garen's brash Force signature. Indeed, he had expected to _feel_ something of his foe, too. He recalled all too well the _stench _ of the Other, of the Enemy: on Melida Daan its prowling regard had left an unmistakable smear of darkness across the plenum, a reeking and rancid trail scrawled across the invisible currents. That obscene _disturbance_ had haunted him, awake and asleep, raked subtly down every nerve until he had thought it woven into his own being, an un-Self.

Now, there was nothing.

His eyes narrowed. No… not _nothing, _ exactly. A purposeful, quite intentional _voiding_ within the universal fullness. A deliberate _erasure_ of presence.

Yan Dooku had imparted much by way of skill and understanding to his last padawan; the instincts of a Shadow would perhaps never quite fail the student, however unwelcome their indelible psychic impress had become to him. Obi-Wan was far too wise to mistake such a deft illusion for anything but what it was: _deceit._

So. He was expected, or at least _suspected. _ Any trained fighter knew that he who possessed the element of surprise had a great initial advantage.

Well. two could play at that game. Closing his eyes, he released all _emotion, _ all _thought,_ all _sensation._ Self and place melted, wraithlike, into the omnipresent _all,_ until he floated – in spirit, in luminous awareness- above the merely outward. Surrounding, penetrating, binding al l things together, he passed unseen through the arena spread out before him, the dejarik board on which he and his opponent wandered, each mantled in a blindness proper to himself: one in Dark, the other in diffuse radiance. Upon this motley field they impalpably moved, as though bound to chequered squares of black and white, passing yet never touching, felt but not seen, paths intermeshed and yet disparate.

The Other briefly manifested himself – a flame of chagrin, of irritation. He had not been expecting an opponent so …. evenly matched.

Cocooned in the Force, Obi-Wan breathed _in-_ compacting the infinite back into the moment, into the here and now. Down there, in the largest ship's bowels, lurked the Beast, the one in whose eyes the fires of hell perpetually kindled. Raw instinct told him that Zhoa – and Garen - were there too, snared in the same web, obscured from his awareness by that same dark art that veiled the monster himself.

It was a lair, a place of concealment in which some primordial terror lurked, offering his friends now as lure and incentive. It was, indubitably, a _trap._

And there was only one proper thing to be done with a trap: spring it.

* * *

It was child's play to elude the sentries' lackadaisical patrol; here, on their homeworld, in the fastness of their ancient abode, the Paxellians were ill accustomed to intruders, much less trained Force-sensitive infiltrators. They did not so much as blink at the shadow that flitted between the wall and the freighter, nor catch his alien scent upon the freezing wind.

The ramp gaped obligingly open, a maw hungry for visitors. Dull emergency lights limned the inner corridor in bloody red; the young Jedi entered this pulsing gullet with a nexu's soundless tread, slinking deeper into the ship's belly, mind and presence shielded twice and thrice in adamantine light.

Deeper and deeper, into the freighter's recesses: paneled hatches, and three intervening blast doors drew near and then fell behind, so many potential barriers forbidding escape. His progress was unimpeded, for what sly hunter would not wish its prey to be mired more and more surely in the trap? The Beast – for this name was as good as any other – had buried its bait in the very center of the labyrinthine mid-level deck system, above the cargo holds and safely distant from any facile exit route.

One more set of blast doors, conveniently open. As though rewarding his intrepid journey, a shred of tattered shadow lifted, a tiny rent in the shroud that pervaded his senses. A glimmer- a sharp, jangling dissonance – and he _knew_ that his missing friends lay just beyond.

He halted, hand on 'saber hilt, breath tuned subtly to its inaudible crystalline chiming. Faint counterpoint to that sweet harmony, a pulse of hatred – muted, but still there – and fainter yet, the whispered canticle of some nameless cult.

_ . Matah. Korah._

Breathe. The Force. Center. Home.

_The Sith have been extinct for a thousand years._

He crossed the final threshold with firm step.

* * *

The lights here had been burned out, but he did not require sight. Fingertips brushing against cold bulkheads, boots treading softly down scuffed decking plates, Obi-Wan crept forward into a narrow space echoing close to either side – a corridor. The Force rippled delicately, delineating hatchways, access vents overhead, control panels to left and right. A silent keening hung in the plenum, a child's desperate unvoiced cry.

_Zhoa._

He halted outside a sealed door, hand pressed against its smooth surface. Beyond, the trembling pulse of a young life, its presence furled inward like a Sullustan day-flower, tightly bound in its own misery. The poor creature was shielding so intensely that he might have _missed _her entirely had he not been anticipating such a thing. He remembered – with a pang of stale fear, even now – a cell on Telos, a cruel face in which glacial eyes and a sickle-shaped scar burned like a triple brand, hard-edged laughter and an abyss of pain, longing, dread and confusion. The deep bruises of recollection, normally quiescent, ached anew in unison with Zhoa's pain.

He banished all emotion on a long breath and _wrenched _the door open with a judicious push of the Force, aware that this was a beacon flare to his foe, a decisive herald of his arrival, unless the Other were distracted by other concerns.

"Zhoa."

A gasp, and then a warm weight hurtled into him, small fingers twisting in his tunics, limbs and headtails pressing hard against his body, a flood of melting relief exploding in the Force between them.

"Shhh," he warned, his own hands brusquely searching for injury, for restraints… ah yes. He hissed.

Some _vile pizzmah_ had collared the small Nautolan. He could feel the electropulse slithering menacingly beneath his fingertips as they traced the shape of the heavy device.

"It 's locked, somehow," Zhoa whispered, "And I can't get it off."

There was no time for delicacy. "Listen," he murmured. "Kneel here. Breathe. I'm taking it off, and it's going to hurt for a moment."

She nodded, swallowing a lump, and he squatted opposite, wrapping fingers about the wicked curve of metal, gathering the Force to himself, extending its power in careful tendrils about the collar's curve. One, two, and –

It snapped into two pieces, blue fire searing up his arms, down his spine, rattling his teeth.

Zhoa slumped forward. "Oh," she whimpered, gratefully, "That wasn't so bad."

"Good," he croaked, chest still spasming a bit. At _that_ setting, the thing could easily have _killed_ the tiny Nautolan. Apparently the Paxellians did not spare the rod where slaves were concerned. "Where is Garen?"

But this inquiry produced only another hiccupping gasp. "He's he's – that that demon thing…. Oh, Master Obi-Wan! My master and Garen and and –"

"Zhoa!"

The lash of his voice brought her hysteria up short. He caught the glint of two astonished round eyes in the darkness. An apology sprang to his lips, but … _they were Jedi._ And in this moment, she must act as one, traumatized youngling or not. "Oh," she peeped, shame husking her treble.

"Come with me," he commanded, gripping one small green hand in his own. "We need to find him, and we need to _get out."_

* * *

It was easy to find Garen; the access corridor to the bridge was a swelter of glowing 'saber burns and felled bodies. Zhoa faltered at the sight of the first decapitated corpse, its Paxellian teeth bared in a frozen grimace, but Obi-Wan pulled her forward through the wreckage. The savagery with which the ship's crew had been mutilated and dismembered was the work of a 'saber blade, but could not possibly be the work of any Jedi – certainly not Garen Muln.

The lift reeked of ozone and fear; when it creaked to a halt, Zhoa was all but cringing beneath the Paxellian fur cloak.

The doors parted, and he stepped into the dim and cavernous bridge, empty but for two figures silhouetted in faint radiance by the console controls. One was Garen, his body splayed grotesquely against the concave viewport, one hand clutching vainly at his throat, boots dangling absurdly off the deck. The other was …

Him.

"_Where _ is your Master?" a grating voice demanded of the struggling padawan.

Zhoa whimpered, and drew back a pace, childish shields crumbling to reveal a desolated inner world, a mindscape furrowed and pocked by cruel assault. Her knees hit the deck, and she folded in upon herself, sobbing at the mere sight of her tormentor.

"Let him go," Obi-Wan ordered, unveiling his presence with a whiplash dramatic flair.

Startled, the demon turned its head, one gloved hand still extended, pinning its captive in place. Jaundiced eyes, two mephitic yellow lanterns, bored into the newcomer even as the black and scarlet flesh rumpled into a leering smile. Humor – curdled and imbalanced – streaked the tempestuous Force, and then the creature laughed, the harsh cackling of a broken viol.

"_This_ is your Master?" it chuckled. "The Jedi apprentice one _whelp_ to another_?"_

The fur cloak slid quietly to the floor. The Enemy. The Beast. Obi-Wan's pulse ratcheted into a continuous war-cry. Here and now, self and other, light and dark. Fate rose like a tidal wave, blotting out past and future, overshadowing the moment in roaring thunder; within the bottomless howl other, malevolent, voices chanted.

_Korah. Ratah-mah._

His 'saber leapt into his hand, thrumming hot and singing high._ "Let him go."_

The tattooed creature laughed, its painted sigils contorting into mocking shapes, a gargoyle's hellish grin. "As you wish," it rasped, flicking its extended hand.

Garen sailed across the open space as bonelessly as a sack of tubers, and crashed heavily into the opposite bulkhead. His limp form rolled to the deck beside Zhoa, and was still.

"Oh no!" the Nautolan wailed.

_There is no emotion. There is peace. There is no passion. There is serenity._

The Enemy lifted a gleaming hilt in its right hand, a smooth cylinder from which erupted two simmering crimson blades, one from either end. The double-sided weapon lay balanced in its weilder's hand, the scales of destiny trembling upon some awful fulcrum.

They paced, counterclockwise, poised and opposed. Illumined by the ruddy glow of its own weapon, the creature appeared in sharp highlight – a Zabrak male, crowned in still-juvenile horns, ragged shards of bone jutting painfully from his skull. He was tall, heavily muscled, clad in loose fitting blacks and a mantle of palpable anger, a black hunger that emanated from him in choking waves. But beneath all this, beneath the arrogance and the regalia of ageless hate, there burned raw _youth._

And in this realization there lay a seed of hope. Obi-Wan bared his own teeth, openly taunting his opponent with a triple helix salute, his sapphire blade tracing an elegant calligraphy of defiance. For he faced not some archetypal Power, some titan of dark and immeasurable antiquity, but another like himself.

A newcomer to the stage, the young _stag_ fresh in its strength, eager to prove himself, to take up a battle fought for innumerable generations. The feud was primordial , but the present battle _new,_ unforetold, unrehearsed.

_Korah. Yoodah. Matah. Korah._

_Peace; serenity; harmony; balance._

They faced off, sabers humming in a dissonant minor chord as they stood upon the brink of conflict, as though Light had never clashed with Dark, as though this were a story never yet told, its outcome never prophesied, the steps of its dance never choreographed.

"You have found the Chosen One," the Zabrak hissed. "The One is for my Master, not for you."

_The One?_ Obi-Wan swung his blade in a casual circle, a sardonic smile tugging at his mouth. He hadn't the foggiest notion what the lunatic beast meant, but that posed no impediment to his purposes. "Oh, I don't think so," he airily replied, tone precisely calibrated for maximum infuriating effect.

The invisible fires of hatred swirling about the Zabrak roared into fanatic pillars, the Force itself seeming to fill with black smoke. "You will yield over the One to me," it growled, imperiously.

_Korah. Yoodah. _ Vengeance. Power.

Peace. Serenity. _There is only the Force._

"… Over my dead body," he snipped, bracing himself for unthinkable conflict.

His enemy snarled, molten eyes aflame with malice. "So be it!"


	19. Chapter 19

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

They fell upon one another with the thundering power of clashing tides, the Force churned into a frothing maelstrom, a salt spray of bitter foam and fury. Red and blue plasma beams scorched the cycled air, spangled the decks with a hailstorm of sparks. The Zabrak hammered against his foe's defenses, his double bladed 'saber scything between them, screaming in wrath. Sure footed in the face of this attack, Obi-Wan spun and blocked, jumped and ducked, a fluid sphere evading every strike. Faster and faster the assault came; more graceful, more controlled grew the defense, the young Jedi's sapphire blade carving a tight guard about his body, his leaps and twists anticipating every treacherous adder-like strike, energy flowing limitlessly from the Force, preventing a single stumble or faltering.

The black and red monster barked out some obscenity in a foul tongue and fell back a pace, weapon howling in a red disk above his head, frustration and hate hissing in his voice. "You are not so _weak_ as you were then," he growled.

So he was _remembered._ "Sorry to disappoint." An impertinent grin, a desperate sidelong glance at Zhoa and Garen. The Nautolan was cradling her fellow padawan's head in her arms; the extent of his injuries could not be discerned.

The sable-clad warrior jumped onto the central console, panting like a colwar on the prowl. Obi-Wan retreated a single pace, placing himself between the vulnerable padawans and this feral beast. He _needed_ to move the combat away, lead his vicious opponent a merry chase – yet the cunning hunter had chosen its battle ground well, cornered him here inside the ship's triple-shielded bridge, with veritable hostages near at hand. He could not be more handicapped were he chained to a post in some primitive gladiatorial arena.

The Zabrak extended one hand in mocking invitation. "Come, Jedi. I owe you a blooding. And your masters are not here to save you this time."

There was a strip of support bracing directly overhead. The young Knight's eyes flicked upward briefly, then back to his injured friends. Risky. "As I recall, the debt is mutual," he drawled, drifting to the right, staying in motion, his 'saber thrumming eagerly in his hand, its serrated drone underpinning his words with grim intent.

Zhoa's shriek of warning was outstripped by the Force's silent shrill; he ducked and rolled as the Zabrak hurtled down upon him like a diving thranctill, and came up in guard position, already swinging to block the decapitating blow. Strike, parry, reverse, strike – he centered a furious counteroffensive upon the weapon's hilt and was rewarded by a furious backpedaling. The Dark creature held out a hand-

-he _threw_ the Force against the assault, power against power, thunder against thunder –

They both flew backward, somersaulting painfully over consoles and rails, then plunged forward again, snarling in unison, blades now screaming together, blue upon red, red upon blue, a wild canticle of discord.

And now the contest transformed into a storm of flying projectiles; the Force surged and warped, shaped by opposing powers. Console panels., bulkhead insulation, support struts, railing, deck plates: all these were lifted or torn from their moorings, hurled pell-mell across the darkened battle arena, narrowly missing their intended target or else sheared in half by a glowing blade. Slag and debris clattered in every direction; the two warriors leapt simultaneously atop the stripped main console, blades howling as they crashed together and locked, spitting bright embers along the pulsing blades.

The evil creature's face contorted as they struggled. "Tell me where the Child is hidden and I will spare you," he promised, lips drawn back over yellowed teeth.

Obi-Wan released the bind, and twisted away in a tight backflip, buying time. _Child?_ The thing was systematically looking for a child, a special child… it made absolutely no sense.

But he hadn't time to contemplate the profundity of his foe's delusion, for the Zabrak had launched himself into another blistering offensive, the double-bladed weapon spinning madly, a sizzling plane of red seeking to carve through flesh, bone, metal, the Force itself. _Cut, cut, cut, cut –_ the blinding speed of their clash summoned an ache into Obi-Wan's arms and shoulders, a tiny thread of …question…. whispering behind his pounding pulse.

_Was_ he a match for this thing?

"Aaaaaaugh!" His boot connected solidly with the horned demon's hilt, driving the cylinder straight into the creature's chin. A crack, as of splintering bone, a spurt of blood –

He ducked, gasping –

_Slam._ Their blades locked again, but the Zabrak had hurled himself forward _in rage, _ carrying them both backward, over a console, onto the decks.

_No no no-_

Pinned beneath a crushing opponent, crimson heat pulsing inches from his face, salt sweat burning in his eyes, a knee grinding hard into his solar plexus, Obi-Wan could hear Zhoa's shrill and terrified cry, the keening of a thousand voices somewhere deep in the Force. Black blood spattered onto his tunics, onto his neck, oozing from the monster's dripping chin. Fire licked greedily behind those glazed eyes, those vestal lanterns of an ancient vendetta oath.

_Yoodah! Korah! Ratahmah!_

"_Jedi,"_ the young warrior hissed, and in that voice was the fermented hatred of a millennium, of an ageless and festering cult, of a Darkness gaping wide to swallow the galaxy whole, to destroy and subjugate, to _torment_ and dominate – a howling _need_ with no hope of satiety, a perverse will bent on one, and only one thing: revenge.

_Our time has come. This is the beginning of the End._

Something broke within him; bands constricting some dreadful vital knowledge burst asunder beneath excruciating pressure, loosing the floodwaters not of _premonition,_ but of _sight;_ ten years' worth of nightmares rushed in a torrent of clarity over his shattered dams.

The Force _exploded_ in anguish, sending the Zabrak flying across the bridge, limbs flailing. He hit the bulkhead and landed in a tangle of black cloth, weapon clattering to the decks nearby.

Obi-Wan rolled upright, head reeling, breath coming in ragged whimpers. _No no noooo…_

But there was no _time_ to fall apart. He hadn't the _luxury_ of terror. He was the one _fighting_ the hell-forsaken _Sith._

He stood, 'saber hilt slick in his grasp. _Sith, SIth, Sith, Sith,_ his heart yammered.

"Master Obi-Wan!" Zhoa screamed. Garen still lay unmoving in her arms.

"Stay here!"he commanded, shaking with sheer animal fear at the prospect of what he was about to do.

The Sith – for it was Sith, of the Dark, the truly Undead, the _Darth,_ the ancient, primordial Enemy – was already rising again, pain and injury only fanning its inner fires to greater height, lending it strength, its majesty like a black corona feeding upon the clash.

_It grows stronger as we fight…_ _conflict is its meditation, chaos is its light._

Trembling, he felt unbidden, blackest humor tug at the corners of his mouth. He _was_ Olokk,_ was he not? _ Ruler over all chaos, its lord and master.

He summoned the Light and raised both hands, _wrenching_ the central support strut free of its moorings. The hull overhead groaned; the massive transparisteel bar wobbled, and then _careened_ straight into the viewport with a sound like ten thousand cymbals smashing in unison. Shards fell like rain; a glittering web of crystal hail burst outward onto the decks. And through that ragged, spectacular aperture Olokk leapt, his shadow-mantled foe in hot pursuit.

* * *

Ever after, whether in conscious thought or deep meditation, recollection would weave a coherent narrative from the tangled threads of the next minutes, deftly twining the raw-spun _imminence_ of his deeds into a tale with beginning and end. But in the moment – in the torrential heart of the Living Force, that all-powerful surging of life, of breath – he merely flowed, desperate and yet calm, compelled and yet free, acting on the prompting of an instinct more fundamental than any other.

In the timeless present of his need, the Force carried him, obliterating then and now, before and after, purpose and action, until there was no emotion or passion or even _self,_ there was only the Force.

Images rang like lingering gong-notes in the plenum, the disparate chimes of a swelling chord:

_Sprinting through darkened alleys, wrath and fire at his heels, Paxellians fleeing, or else falling, in the wild onslaught of their chase-_

_Walls, doors, gates, obstacles melting away – thrown aside, carved though, blown apart, wrenched open, battered down – a colossal arena, tiered seats, blood-darkened sand, walls howling with echoed fear, black stone, underlevel, cages, pits, cavern –_

_A beast, slavering and impossible huge, stupid, hungry, chained and enraged, an instrument of death, an obscene behemoth penned beneath the place of execution –_

Obi-Wan slid down the last corridor and re-grouped, 'saber screaming in his hand. The Sith, maddened by the fruitless chase, lusting for more battle, pelted after him in a fever of hate, his frustration a tattered pennant streaming behind him in the gale-wind of the Force.

The young Knight's back hit a massive grating. Dead end. He whirled, carved through the obstruction, rolled beneath the barrier.

The arena monster stirred, all hanging flash and gaping jaws, slatted tiny eyes and slime-coated, flaring nostrils. It grunted, and then rose, up and up, and ….

_Stars' end._ Rancor.

The Zabrak flowed under the barrier like burning oil, hot rage coiling off him in waves, the calligraphy of his hide twisting weirdly in shadow. The rancor opened its jaws and released an ululating roar, a sound fit to bring the confines of its prison down in ruins.

Obi-Wan dashed between its legs, two relatively short arms scrabbling futilely at the moving target; his foe surged forward, severing claws and scorching creased hide.

_Thunder._ Pain-blind, heedless of all but destruction, the rancor thrashed and roared, skull battering the grating of its prison as it strove to snatch the intruders. Paxellians swarmed into the passage beyond, shouting and cursing; chunks of masonry hurtled from the walls of the beast's pen, and were flung willy-nilly by its panic.

"Coward!" the Sith taunted his opponent, raising a closed fist, teeth bared.

Obi-Wan drove his 'saber into the rancor's rear foot, and rolled aside, gasping in a cloud of dust and grit as the nine hells broke loose in a glorious cataclysm. The foundation level of the gladiatorial arena rumbled and shook, stones fell, bodies were strewn in all directions. Clouds of dust coiled upward, voices chorused alien obscenities. The Force shattered into a firework kaleidoscope of disorder as the entire city went up in alarm, a rampaging monster now stalking the streets, smashing dwellings and trampling guards, an indiscriminate weilder of death. The Sith disappeared monetarily, swallowed in a chaos beyond the grasp of an acolyte, the masterful stroke of a _god._

* * *

The young Knight sprinted away from the ruin, the beast's cries echoing in the night, the Force turgid now with fear and surprise. He hadn't time – his enemy would recover quickly – wrong turn, no- here?- yes! – another street, over that wall, beneath that arch…

The children screamed in terror when he kicked through the window grate and plummeted down among them again. Most pressed their bodies to the wall, starved eyes fixed upon the 'saber's pulsing blue edge.

"Follow me!" he ordered, more than a modicum of Force-borne persuasion behind the words.

Sentries burst through the cell's open door, pikes sizzling –

-heads rolled from bodies, limbs thudded to the stained flagstones – younglings shrieked, death gurgled up in black geysers from open throats – now now now go go go-

"Go!" he urged the liberated captives. "Go!"

Stumbling, weeping, more in terror of him than gladness for escape, the slaves crowded out into the passageway, herded into a night fraught with terror and violence, into a cold and bitter rain, sharp knifing chill pouring down from affronted heaven, into slick streets and dark courtyards.

They ran, a wailing procession, scores of bloodied and bare feet pattering in fright along frozen stone – this way, that way – there were no sentries, none left to stop them while the rancor stampeded through the fortress' bowels, none to obstruct their flight-

He almost lost his own footing upon the slick decking of the spaceport. The freighter stood ahead, its viewport shattered, the beam sticking out drunkenly like a spear thrust through a cyclops' eye. The children fled before him, mindless with fear, driven by adrenaline and the panic rampant in the very air. Obi-Wan held out a hand, gathered the tempestuous Force, yanked the ramp open.

"Get inside!"

His captives – for they were little else, trembling and moaning, uncomprehending their plight, or their fate – stumbled into the ship's belly, a grimy, sopping, miserable convocation.

He spun, sucking in a sharp breath as two things appeared at once upon the summit of the concave wall; the Sith, anger blazing round him , a vengeful effluvia crowning his jagged horns, limning him in hellish radiance_-_ and behind this avenging power, the scored and bleeding head of the rancor: its eyes burned clean out by a brutal plasma blade - bumbling its way toward the port, tossing its head in sightless, fathomless rage and pain.

The outer wall collapsed inward upon a pile of stacked fuel canisters even as the Sith plunged downward from on high, crimson blade's song a dissonant battle cry, an anthem of ageless hatred, a vow to extinguish the Light and all its servants.


	20. Chapter 20

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

They met in midair, weapons sending up a dual, ear-splitting screech as the arc-wave blades tangled, spitting actinic fire. The decks rushed to meet them, slammed them apart, to either side of a slow-spreading river, a glossy stream widening with the ponderous certitude of death, of unhurried doom.

Liquid tibanna, seeping from its pressurized canisters, those crushed in the rancor's last furious spasm. The great beasts's carcass toppled slowly now, crumpling down upon the ruined wall, enormous head lolling grotesquely as its expiring rattle of breath boiled up in a frothing pink gurgle. The masses of armored flesh lay desolated, a mountain of bone and claw quiescent upon a pyre of its own making.

Paxellian voices shouted in a frenzy just outside the docking station's confines.

The two warriors stared each other down, separated by the oily rivulet, the reflective surface rippling in menace, colors delicately limned in its marbled depths, opalescent and sinuous ribbons on a pool of golden liquid.

The Zabrak threw back his magnificent head, eyes glittering, weapon burning in one black-gauntled hand, cranial horns thrusting brazenly from his skull, Dark sigils engraved proudly upon his skin. Threat and promise melded in his gaze, an oath without words, a sacred vow made as to a lover, to one betrothed in the realm of hatred – _you are mine, and I yours. _

The young Jedi shuddered in visceral repulsion, and the Sith laughed, reveling in his disgust, in his negative emotion. The yellowed teeth were bared again, triumphant. _Mine. We are bound, united, compacted into one. I shall find you –_

Obi-Wan's saber flicked downward, defiant, ablaze with denial, skimming the surface of the trickling fuel –

-_and we shall consummate our hate! Korah! Matah! Yoodah!_

The tibbana ignited, a conflagration instantaneous and blinding. A wall of whitest flame roared skyward between them, a shimmering blats of heat and noise. The young Knight flipped backward, landed upon the ship's open ramp, dove within the protective bubble of the hull just as the fuel exploded into an obliterating ball of fire, flaying the rancor of skin, blackening the walls of the dock, casting stone and slag like confetti.

He gasped, rolling halfway down the corridor as the ramp slammed shut behind him.

The shielding – designed for high speed atmospheric re-entry- would afford them a scant minute's protection. He pelted toward the bridge and skidded into near-blackness, heart pounding. The shattered viewport had been sealed behind blast shields, the scrapped consoles and helm only faintly flickering.

"Zhoa!" he roared.

The Nautolan padawan was nowhere to be seen, but he sensed her presence within the vessel's depths, mingled and muted by the terror of the rescued younglings. Garen was gone, too, only a smeared trail of pain lingering in his wake.

No time to fret. He bolted into the main pilot's station, fingers jabbing and prodding at anything that would respond, hands unsteady on the unfamiliar helm. The drives choked into life beneath them, the ship lurched. Warning lights and klaxons sounded, and were silenced. He swallowed, pleading with the all-merciful Force, heart in throat, and lifted the crippled, shuddering, half-dead Paxellian freighter off the deck and into the black sky, a bird winging drunkenly from the heart of a fiery cataclysm.

The city burned beneath them, and they strained upward, rattling in the storm-fraught sky, slewing clumsily upward and away.

His searching hands found the active scanners, and swept the surrounding landscape as he pushed the massive ship in a wide circle. The devastated city appeared as striating bands of energy, a chaotic melee of colour and warning signals; and there… far below… he thought he discerned two tiny specks, pinpricks of warmth amid a frozen tundra. It might have been his imagination, or it might have been the Force, but he fancied the life forms were his Paxellian worshippers, madly cheering on their marauding deity as he ascended into the heavens, having wrought abundant vengeance upon their persecutors, according to his promise.

He chuckled a bit, then stopped himself, wondering if this were the onset of hysteria. The ship groaned around him, threatening mutiny. He punched the commsat panel one last time, and was rewarded with a faint ping. Jaw clenched, he coded in the Deltas' linked frequency….

….nothing… nothing…

_Bleep-toot-blip._

"RG!" Why had he ever cast aspersion upon his astromech? Surely there was no finer lump of circuits and scraps for a thousand parsecs around. "RG, abandon post! Take the fighters back to home base, do you copy?"

For a breathless moment, he thought the loyal droid might not have got the transmission; a thrill of relief flooded in his gut when he heard the faint shrill of affirmation, garbled by static but clear enough.

"Tell Master Tinn we've gone to ground. We're headed for Erabythe."

A curious blip, then another fragmented retort.

"No, it's not on your astrochart. Just deliver the message. Do you copy?"

There was a fearsome snap as something in the console shorted out, cutting the link. Obi-Wan breathed out, the helm bucking beneath his hands, the unfamiliar controls only half-responsive. A primitive nav-comp input relay was imbedded in the forward array; he squinted over it for along minute then hesitantly entered coordinates, closing his eyes briefly as he finalized the jump sequence.

The freighter hiccupped, jerked violently, and cleared atmosphere, drives grinding ominously.

He gathered in the Light, pushing aside every emotion and anxiety, and initiated the jump. The hyperdrive whined, shrieked, and then engaged with a lurch that nearly sent him sprawling across the decks. With the blast shields closed, he could see nothing, but the warping of space, the weird inversion of the Force, he recognized without sight. Hyperspace.

He slumped backward in the creaking pilot's chair, a cold sweat trickling down back and chest.

Calm. Center.

A single textured inhalation; a slow release of the same.

It wasn't over yet. He found his feet, abstractedly noting that his limbs were leaden and yet wobbling in the aftermath of adrenaline and the Force, that he seemed to observe himself as though from a position of abstraction. The bridge doors parted to usher him into the corridor, and from thence into the open holds at the vessel's rear.

Younglings cowered upon the decks in the largest storage bay, huddled together in miserable clumps. He leaned in the open hatchway, dully watching Zhoa Pleromata flit between them, murmuring soft words and stroking a hunched back here, a small head there. Her head turned when he appeared, black opal eyes widening.

He slumped against the welcome support. "Garen," he said, voice rasping.

A small green finger pointed him toward starboard, even as the padawans' mental shields slipped another notch, betraying inner turmoil.

He nodded, and wearily dragged his way to the adjacent cabin, a cheerless place redolent of Paxellians, musty and faintly rancid. A guardroom, perhaps. A single narrow bunk was riveted to the bulkhead; upon this insufficient palette, Garen Muln was stretched out supine, his face a ghastly hue.

"Garen." Obi-Wan sank down, before his knees buckled. Ice slithered in his belly. Garen.

He touched his friend's face, then wrapped fingers about one limp hand, nudging insistently with the Force, as though to awaken a lazy clanmate who had willfully extended a nap, who was merely playing at injury…

The padawan groaned, and turned cloudy eyes upon his visitor. "… Obi… ah…_kriff –_ I.. "

"Don't talk." A deep furrow appeared between the young Knight's brows. He prodded with the Force, feeling distinctly sick.

"Bossy," Garen whispered, around a strangled moan. His breaths were shallow, rigid.

His back was broken. Obi-Wan laid his free hand on his friend's chest, a featherlight touch. "Garen, hang on. I'll get you back. To the Temple. I promise. I.." Words failed him. His own breathing was coming shallow and rapid now, too fast. The small, stuffy cabin seemed to close in about him.

His fault.

"Obes," Garen managed, on a soft exhalation. "…gundark."

"Don't talk, Garen." He clutched at the other youth's hand, feeling the raw scrawling of pain beneath the skin, the desperate staccato-rhythm of his pulse. He could at least do…_something. _ But he had so very little left to give, the battle having wrung him out. Still, a Jedi did not _try. _ A Jedi merely did, until he could do no more.

He leaned his head down upon the cot's edge and summoned up the dregs of his strength. Just a little, a meager gift but all that he could muster : healing energy shunted from one exhausted body to another.

* * *

When he was done, Garen slept and he could barely stand.

"Master?"

Zhoa stood shyly in the hatchway, watching with hooded eyes. Obi-Wan wavered on the spot, and regarded her closely. Her gaze flitted away form his, elusive and guarded. "The others – the younglings – they're hungry. And there;s no food."

He nodded, wearily. "I'm sorry."

She waited for an answer , for the solution to present itself. He stood, bereft of wisdom or succor, a poor excuse for the Force's infinite wisdom.

"Oh." She contemplated the deck, then hesitated before withdrawing again. "Is he..? Will he…?"

"I don't know." He knew so little. He knew so much, all of it burdensome. His throat closed. "I hope he – "

The diminutive Nautolan glanced up then, startled by the catch in his voice. "You can't save him?" she peeped, betrayal luminous in her orb-like eyes.

_I can't lose him, like this. Because I was too late, because I didn't foresee… "_ His fate is in the Force's hands. We must be patient." _Be patient, Kenobi. Be a Jedi. Don't lose it here in front of the youngling._

But he had already lost her in the way that counted most; a certitude faded from her broght presence as she dipped her head and beat a slow retreat, silpa bead braid dangling forlornly over one slender shoulder.

Whatever feats Olokk may have performed this day, however miraculous their escape, it was clear that he had at least lost one avid former worshipper.

* * *

Things began to go wrong ten minutes before reversion.

_Life support systems failing. Gravitational compensator failing. Reserve thrusters depleted. Commsat system non responsive._

One by one, the ship's vital organs expired, leaving it a lumpen mass hurtling madly for its final destination.

Five minutes, klaxons blaring. Two minutes. _Hyerdrive leaking._

One minute._ Nav interface off line. _

Thirty seconds, ten seconds. Obi-Wan braced himself, Held the helm, stared blankly at the sealed blast shields. Outside, beyond this lump of metal, there might be unlikely sanctuary – or there might be nothing.

He had never visited a waystation before, nor ever hoped to have need of one.

The ship lurched violently, throwing him hard against the console. More klaxons; emergency lights flared. The dying computer warned him of imminent collision, and then –

_-rending impact –_

The ship slewed about, shuddered, and plunged into a gravitational well, accelerating nauseatingly.

He pulled back on the yoke, cursing. They straightened, dipped again, lurched and bucked. The drives groaned and coughed.

_Oh Force._He could sense the planet – no, moon, wasn't it? – below. He could sense the danger, on all sides. He could sense _nothing_ of the star-forsaken machine in which they were incarcerated, a lumpen mass hurtling stubbornly for a last fatal collision.

_Force help us. There are forty younglings on board._

He closed his eyes, breathed out, _wrapped_ himself – somehow – about the freighter's plummeting mass, and… let go.

Light shafted downward, weightless and serene. Matter plummeted into darkness, into obliterating impossible depths, impetus gathering, magnifying, crushing, pressing in on lung and heart, burning, burning…

_Just me. Take me. Not the younglings. _

Speed, rushing hurtling roaring wind air mountain sky blood roaring whistling screaming Light heat power golden, scintillating, motionless suspended –

He passed out just as the ship ploughed headlong into soft and yielding loam, turned halfway onto its belly like a playful whaladon and beached itself upon the far shore of a soft and waving paradise.


	21. Chapter 21

**Legacy 3**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

A small hand bunched in his tunics and shook, insistently, a tiny silverfish dispelling the murk from a clotted pond.

Obi-Wan stirred, surfacing reluctantly from heavy darkness, pushing up onto his elbows and squinting in a gloom scented of hot metal and spilled lubricant.

"Master Obi-Wan! Wake up. Wake up. Oh dear…. Wake up!"

Surrendering the fight to achieve perpendicularity, he settled for rolling onto his back. The far bulkhead loomed overhead, in completely the wrong place. A door was set, absurdly, in the center of the wall on his left. Blinking lights and sparking circuits – spilled like reeking intestines – decorated every surface. He frowned deeply.

"Master, please… l need help. They're hungry and some of them are hurt and and.. Garen, he's crying. Master,. I don't know what to do!"

He sat up, then, and his head throbbed fit to burst. Blackness closed round the edges of vision, then retreated. Pain spiked behind his temples, thrilled down his spine. He rolled onto his knees, grasping at the tattered Force. Breathe. Center.

"Please hurry!" Zhoa begged him.

Breathe. Breathe. Memory settled like fine dust, giving form to meaningless sensation: the Paxellian freighter bridge. The crash. Ah… they were at least ninety-degrees off balance, the entire vessel resting on its side, and irrevocably damaged, especially here, where there was no spaceport to make repairs… and _here,_ he recalled at last with a small jolt of curiosity, was _Erabythe._

Zhoa leapt to her feet beside him when he clambered upright. "You have to jump through the door now," she explained, pointing to the hatchway now gaping crookedly several meters above the functional floor.

He nodded, a coating of toxic chemicals at the back of his throat tickling his gag reflex, his feet not quite _perfectly _steady, and gathered himself to spring through the opening behind her.

"Come on, hurry," the tiny Nautolan urged him yet again, and he allowed himself to be chivvied along by her infantile urgency, docile as a pet yarrix, and strangely hollow.

Garen was indeed weeping – not unbecoming wails, but the slow trickling of unbearable pain cascading one liquid drop at a time down his drawn and pallid face.

The crash had thrown him free of the bunk, and sent him careening into the bulkheads, exacerbating an already grave injury. Obi-Wan crouched beside him, choking on the clearly projected waves of agony. The Force was a thicket of razor-thin needles, a barrier about the suffering youth, one difficult to push through. He touched Garen's face, his hands, gaping a little as resounding pain leaked over his own shields.

"Gar, I'm so sorry… Gar, can you hear me?"

The padawan made a small guttural noise, turned his head a fraction. "Obi."

"Help is coming." Please let it be coming. Please.

Garen managed a sickly smile. "Hope they've got strong liquor."

"That's not funny."

The other young Jedi moaned, eyes slipping shut. "Oh Force," he breathed.

"Garen!"

"Can't feel…. Legs are gone. Weird."

Obi-Wan's heart plummeted into his boots. Spinal cord damage. Nausea washed over him, riding on a crest of fear. He ruthlessly suppressed it. Focus on the present moment. "They can help you at the Temple. Master Li is a genius… Bant will be there.."

"Bant," Garen sobbed, face contorting again. "Oh _Force, _Obi… help me – not - "

Once, when they were both small – clan initiates, nothing more – Garen had broken his ankle playing on the senior obstacle course without permission. They had been together, of course, the infraction one undertaken mutually and with great delight until the fateful moment. When the healers had rushed to the scene, one of them had _absorbed_ the injured youngling's pain, shunting it into the Force. Obi-Wan had watched, wide-eyed and admiring, until Ali Alaan's stern grip had closed round his wrist and led him away to face a well deserved punishment for disobedience.

"I'll try, Gar. Let me, here.."

"No try," Garen reminded him, the faintest echo of smugness under his cracking voice.

Whatever the metaphysical contradiction, he did indeed try – without training and without experience, it was difficult, a slippery messy, touch and go operation, one that ultimately resulted in blessed unconsciousness for Garen and a redoubled headache for his friend.

Obi-Wan left his comrade where he lay – it was too risky to move him, not without proper equipment, even using the Force to levitate his body – and stumbled his way to the aft hold, climbing through the rat-maze presented by the wildly upturned ship.

The hold was empty, the ramp open and pointing skyward, a window to wheeling blue heaven. He heaved himself up and over the curved bulkhead, over the rim of this makeshift gate, and fell heavily to grassy earth a few meters below. The sky spun, tall stalks waved golden against cerulean depths, a warm wind buffeted the ship's scorched hull, caressed his face. Children's voices floated on the wind – some whimpering, others talking in a medley of languages, a few laughing. Zhoa's treble could also be discerned among them, quiet and authoritative, as befit a Jedi. He let his head fall sideways, blotting out the radiance of the sky and the dizzying motion of the waving grass. The entire world smelled of Qui-Gon's favorite tea… sweet silpa leaf, dried and crushed, fragrant and earthy….

If the tall master were here, he would perhaps try to make a bowl of tea from the whole wide expanse, drink the very Living Force from this place, horizon to horizon, a libation without beginning or end, an elixir of intoxicating, bitter proportions…

With a cold jolt, he forced his eyes open and stilled his delirious thoughts. Not good. He peered critically at one hand, noting that the slight tremor, took stock of the sheen of perspiration drying on his skin, the insidiious chill creeping through his limbs.

Shock. Or fever.

He rolled over, and retched until the harsh taste of industrial chemicals was purged from his system, and he tasted only bile. The bridge must have been saturated with poisons.. it was a mercy, really, that Zhoa had found him when she did.

"Zhoa!" His voice was too hoarse, too faint to be heard over the rustling of stalks, the gentle susurration of the breeze. Using the hull to steady himself, he found his feet again and set off toward the younglings' voices, trudging carefully through waist-high stems

The Nautolan padawan's head and shoulders appeared over the edge of this mobile rampart, and a small green hand waved him over, enthusiastically.

He emerged into a trampled clearing, where the entire convocation of escaped slave children squatted or sat, many of them industriously threshing seeds from the felled stalks.

"You can _eat_ these!" Zhoa triumphantly announced. "Try one… it tastes like _ulgha_ grain."

He hesitantly popped a single seed in his mouth, grinding it between his teeth. It did indeed taste of sweet milled _ulgha,_ or a rich barley. He nodded, and sank down amid the circle, scanning over the assorted younglings. Most were half-starved, many bore whip-marks. A few cradles sprains or bruised limbs – likely the outcome of their crash. One or two slept on their sides, ominously quiet. A skinny Arconan boy huddled in on himself, triangular head resting on upraised knees.

The boy would soon die without dactyl crystal, but there was nothing he could do to alleviate the poor creature's suffering. And he did not have the heart to tell Zhoa.

"We don't have any water," the Nautolan informed him, her hands folded tightly together.

He exhaled, mind grinding sluggishly away at this new problem. "The ship must have a condenser unit – in the galley, maybe. You'll have to salvage it, use a spare power cell from something else…"

She scowled. "You aren't going to help?"

His teeth were chattering badly. He gestured to the younglings. "Zhoa. You've done beautifully. Just a little longer… help… Master Tinn – "

"Master? Are you all right?"

Well, that was a foolish question. Obviously he was not all right. He held up a hand, trying to pin the unsteady world in place. "Zhoa," he said, sharply.

Stung into compliance, she dashed away to follow orders, leaving him in peace amid the dancing field. The rescued slaves gave him a wide berth, huddling among themselves, nibbling at the meager sustenance to be gleaned from their surroundings.

A roaring sounded above – no, beneath – the quiet music of the breeze. He glanced down at his stained tunics, at the black spattering upon pure white linen. Sith blood.

_I owe you a blooding, Jedi. You are mine and I yours._

Impulsively, he stripped off the gore-speckled tabards and tunic, rumpling them into a ball and hurling them away, far from himself. He sat shivering in the warm afternoon, still-spotless inner tunic clinging wetly to his heaving chest, heart battering against sore ribs.

_I am not yours. I belong to the Light, and the Light alone. _

Soft radiance poured down, enveloping the grass and the huddled younglings and the sky and earth in a blunting wave, a dissolving golden ocean…. He held fast to his 'saber's hilt, anchor and foundation, and drifted away upon its currents , upon a coracle of fevered dreaming.

* * *

"Here he is, Master! I've found him," a resonant female voice called out.

A small grunt of effort; a pair of heavily muscled arms hauled him upright into sitting position. A cascade of silky black fell over his face, tickling his nose.

Obi-Wan sneezed. "…Torbb?"

"Easy, brother. You don't do anything by halves, do you?"

Halves? He frowned. What halves?

The wind was cool now, the world dark. Boots tramped nearer – heavy, measured strides. Another presence crouched beside him – another lantern shining in the Force. He swam up out of cloying depths, aching in every limb.

Saesee Tinn's rasping tones fell clear and brittle upon his ears. "Thank the Force. Kenobi. " A hand grasped his shoulder, a tentative mental probe brushed his shields.

"I'm fine," he responded, automatically.

Torbb Bakk'ile chuckled, her generous bosom rising and falling beneath his back. "Overstatement. You missed the waystation by about five hundred klicks, by the way. And you need remedial piloting school."

Obi-Wan summoned a lopsided smile. "I hate flying," he explained.

"He's all right," Torbb grunted, pulling him to his feet in one fluid motion. One arm remained beneath his shoulders, large hand clamped beneath his arm in an iron vise. "Steady – we're heading home."

"Garen?" he croaked.

The Iktothci master's gimlet eyes flicked out over the darkened field. There, not far away, the dense bulk of the freighter loomed. A pair of figures – cowled Knights, members of the other squadrons, propelled a hovering stasis pod between them.

"He will survive, or recover, if the Force so wills," Saesee Tinn intoned.

It was a cold assurance. Obi-Wan nodded, once, watching the grim procession's slow progress.

"Padawan Pleromata had comported herself with admirable discipline and fortitude," the Iktotchi observed. "She will be commended before the Council. But tell me, who are all these younglings?"

"Slaves," he explained. "Captured by the Paxellians."

Tinn's textured brow ridges rose.

"I freed them, Master." He hesitated. "I need to speak with the Council."

"Concerning this affair?"

He shook his head – a mistake, for it set the headache off again, a shower of firework explosions behind his bleary eyes. "About… a Sith."

Torbb and the older Jedi sucked in a sharp breath, but neither ventured comment.

"We came as soon as your droids relayed the message," the Iktotchi remarked. "But you have been here a long time, nevertheless. It was difficult to locate you with scanners alone. Come – I can see you need rest and perhaps a healer."

He allowed himself to be propelled forward, over the uneven earth, silpa-tea scented and soft beneath his dragging boots. Republic ships waited a short distance away – a shuttle and a larger transport- and he found himself suddenly grateful for Torbb's supporting arm. The short journey blurred into a grey and textureless moment, an ashen epilogue to great strife.

He barely remembered the flight back to home base.

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Master._

_The comm droid says you are not yet returned from your mission; I have requested a relay transfer. _

_I hope you are well._

_..._

_I don't know where to start. Garen is on his way back to Coruscant with several fractured vertebrae and a damaged spine. Feld preceded him by a day or two, and is also badly injured. Zhoa is accompanying them back, with Reeft. She was…_

_Never mind. I'd rather speak in person. _

_I've been incarcerated here at the base for a short time. Apparently one of our Service Corps volunteers is a field medic – a traitor in our midst, and a very uncompromising personality. Don't fret – I'm perfectly fine._

_Well, from a certain point of view._

_I don't know how long I will be here, however, in the long term; Stagg Squadron has been disbanded, for obvious reasons, and I must speak with the Council, urgently. Something happened …._

_..._

_Does the blasted holonet even extend to whatever star-forsaken backwater world you are on?_

_I'll try again soon._

_May the Force be with us all._

_-end transmission -_


	22. Chapter 22

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Bereft of any real duty – his leadership position having effectively been annulled by the disbandment of his squadron – Obi-Wan watched the incoming holo-console like a tethered hawkbat.

"A watched pot never boils," observed the medic, Kellar. "Even for you, Master Jedi."

The young Knight raised a brow at his erstwhile jailer. The Service corpsman was a solid forty years his senior, and clearly judged this superiority of years more than sufficient counterweight to their official difference in rank. He had taken his captive well in hand from the outset, channeling Ben To Li at his most brusque and uncompromising, and bestowing upon his unwilling patient the fond moniker "Master Jedi." If the nickname had an aftertaste of irony about it, Obi-Wan chose to ignore this fact; dignity demanded as much.

But a pot, watched or otherwise, must eventually start to bubble. Patience, as any devotee of the Force knew well, did pay off.

The first chime signaled a message incoming from Coruscant. Obi-Wan leaned forward eagerly, activating the holo-relay. Blue light flickered over the plate, slowly resolving into a three-dimensional image of…

"Reeft!" he said, surprised. "I wasn't expecting you."

The Dressalian's rumpled face split into a grin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Your reputation precedes you."

Reeft shrugged, eyeing his friend's somewhat disheveled image critically. "Kellar keeping you snuggly and warm?" he innocently inquired.

A snort. "News, Reeft. Now."

"Yes, Master," the padawan responded with an elaborate eyeroll. "Thought you might like an update on those younglings. They've all been handed over to the Refugee Relocation program on Naboo – folks there are trying to hunt down parents for most of 'em… they will be sheltered and fed in the meanwhile. It's a planetary relief organization, very nice. I met with the director and the Senator for the planet here on Coruscant. I was impressed with both of them."

"Naboo is famously civilized. " A stray thought, niggling at his conscience. "Was there an Arconan? A boy – late teens. He was very ill."

Reeft nodded. "Yeah, he's recovering. They got some dactyl into him _in extremis…_ he might still be in medcenter but he'll survive. "

"That's good news." And it was. For a fleeting moment he let himself revel in the mental image of the missing younglings reunited with families, distraught guardians and parents… but a Jedi must not succumb to sentimentality. Solemn joy was one thing; maudlin emotion another. "What about Zhoa? Have you seen her?"

The Dressalian's face sobered. "She's pretty torn up over Feld - he's here in the Temple healing ward, doing all right. Took a few blaster shots, he's been in bacta – in and out – not talking yet, obviously. Zo-Zo's a mess. She told me about some of what happened…"

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. "Aboard the slaving vessel?"

Reeft's wide mouth pursed in disgust. "They were hoping to reserve her for choice buyers – apparently they don't keep all their slaves, they'll auction off the best merchandise to private interests. Particularly _intact_ young females. She didn't like being collared, or whipped – apparently she was pretty feisty, hard to believe but there you go – she definitely didn't like being appraised by some psycho they call the Beast. Any of that make sense to you? "

"Unfortunately, yes."

Ben To's climbing the walls with her underfoot, and Feld's still out of commission."

Another name hung unspoken between them, a forbidden topic. "And…?"

Reeft's mournful eyes dropped. "I don't know, Obes. The healer are tight-lipped and I'm not allowed in."

Disappointed, the young Knight nodded. "Of course. "

Silence.

"Thank you for the comm., Reefs. It is good to hear from you."

The padawan tucked hands into opposite sleeves and bowed, melancholy lingering in the Force long after his effigy had dissolved into thin air.

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_I thought I might make another attempt, in hopes of reaching you in transit... but I seem doomed to failure. I may be recalled to Temple soon; Master Tinn hints that the Council may wish an extensive report, and that the Senate is reconsidering the feasibility of a Rim Patrol, in light of recent developments. _

_Needless to say, I blame the Trade Federation for the legislature's fickleness. They've probably not stopped smarting from the Phoeeb debacle yet, and they control a great many of the conglomerate voting blocs, one way or another._

_I don't want to leave yet – we've unfinished business out here. There are unresolved leads, and Torbb Bakk'ile is determined to hunt down the pirate called Uticus. The Federation is up to no good – I feel certain of it – and the Paxellians are growing bolder by the cycle. I had hoped, personally, to catch wind of the New Dawn while we were out here. There is so much to be done… but I will return if summoned. There is something else that happened, something I need to tell you about._

_Where in the nine hells have you got off to, Qui-Gon? I'm stuck in an infernal medward and you're not to be found._

_It's rude._

_And vexing._

_May the Force be with you._

_-end transmission –_

* * *

He started awake – from a very short, very unintentional nap – when the console chimed again. Slipping past the disapproving bio-droid in the corner, he nipped into Kellar's makeshift office and activated the relay.

"Master," he greeted the flickering image above the projector.

Except it was not quite the one he had anticipated.

"Ah, Kenobi," Yan Dooku drawled, peering down his aristocratic nose. "Excellent. I crave a word with you in private."

The young Knight glanced over one shoulder, into the empty corridor beyond. "Private is subject to several equivocal meanings, " he observed, darkly.

The Sentinel 's grey eyes narrowed. "Star's end – I believe you resent your current situation. Unbecoming."

Obi-Wan cocked a challenging brow. "There _has_ been a disproportionate degree of fuss made over me. I have _work_ to do."

Dooku smiled thinly. "It might have been my recommendation to Tinn that you be kept , ah… under observation."

Bristling, the young Jedi bolted to his feet. "I say the word _Sith,_ and the Council presumes that I've suffered nervous breakdown? That's flattering."

The senior Jedi raised a placating hand. "Save your sarcasm for another occasion. I assured the Council that your temporary indisposition was symptomatic of _veracity _ rather than delusion. You do recall the … holocron… incident?"

Obi-Wan subsided into simmering displeasure, the unpleasant recollection of _that occasion_ coalescing in his mind. At nineteen, upon his life day, he had opened a Dark holocron at the behest of Dooku, who had then worn the mantle of teaching authority. A Shadow, he had been told, must _know _what he hunts, _face _ the inner enemy. The encounter, however carefully supervised, however artificially and formally constructed, had lasted an excruciating five hours and had resulted in a _week's_ confinement to the healer's ward. He had been feverish, sick, even gross matter rebelling violently against the exposure to vital, spiritual _poison, _ to the antithesis of the Light which gave a Jedi his strength and serenity, his balance and sanity and ultimately his health.

"I remember," he growled.

"Good," the Sentinel callously replied. "Then you will see why the medic's records corroborate your viewpoint. That should quash any incipient objections in the Council chamber."

The young Jedi sank back in to Kellar's chair, arms crossed vexedly over his chest. "I come to serve," he remarked, dryly.

"I should think so," Dooku sniffed. He tilted his silver head to one side. "Tell me… this Sith. He was inexperienced?"

"A Zabrak no older than me, I would guess, though well trained in Force arts."

A terse nod. "Apprentice, then. There are, according to the ancient rule, only two _darth_: and this, we must presume, is the postulant."

Obi-Wan nodded grimly. "He spoke of a _master_."

"Have a care," Dooku warned. "The Sith trials involve choosing a specific rival – a _worthy foe- _ upon whom to ritually enact the subjugation of Light to Darkness. Traditionally a decapitated and mutilated body would be presented to the reigning Darth of his acolyte's readiness for full initiation."

"Lovely." He did not dare inquire how it was that Dooku knew such macabre details.

The older man arched one brow. "Flippancy will not shield you from such focused _attention._ Do not play lightly with this thing. It is part of your destiny now, whether you will or no."

Kellar chose that moment to enter with a steaming bowl. "Tea for you, Master Jedi. Forgive the intrusion," he added, unrepentant.

Obi-Wan addressed the holo-projector one last time. "You will speak to the Council again?"

"Indeed I shall. I think it likely you will be recalled. This… phenomenon… merits grave thought, and careful planning. Your role is likely to be disputed; the Order has not dealt with such a threat in over a millennium. We are grown complacent…. but that can no longer be so."

There was an almost on the brink of long-gleeful tone to the man's words, the zeal of a crusader standing upon the brink of long-awaited battle. Abruptly cold and weary again, his interlocutor ended the interchange with a curt "Yes, Master," and closed the link.

"Drink up," the medic advised. "And clear out. I need my desk and _you_ need your rest."

* * *

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Comm me when you receive this message. You had better not have joined the Living Force, my old master._

_Blast it. _

_-end transmission-_

* * *

"Obi!" Bant's static-riddled image exclaimed. "I'm sorry to wake you."

He ran a hand through his long mane, imposing peremptory order. "You didn't."

"Liar. I…. well, I shouldn't be doing this, but…. I thought you might want news."

He leaned forward, heart skipping a beat. "Garen?"

The Mon Cal's globular eyes slid sideways, furtively, then returned to the holocam. "He's out of surgery and into bacta… Master Li is moderately hopeful. They tried a neural regeneration implant – it's supposed to stimulate recovery of damaged pathways, but it's not really designed for a _spinal_ cord… so we don't know how well it will work."

"But it could." A Jedi should not cling so desperately to one outcome.

"We can't be attached to that idea," Bant reminded him. "If it takes," she added, hesitantly, "he'll need _months_ of therapy to regain strength and agility."

Obi-Wan's heart sank. Another obstacle, another significant _delay_ in Garen's long journey toward Knighthood. "He won't face the Trials for at least another year, then…"

"Obi," Bant softly chided. "You're brooding again."

"It's my fault, Bant. I sent him into danger. I was responsible." The confession eased some of the weight about his chest, but did not expunge it entirely. Feld, Zhoa, Garen…. All three had suffered because of his _blindness,_ his blundering.

The young healer's round, glossy eyes narrowed. "You do realize that's arrogant."

"What?!"

"Always taking blame for anything that goes wrong. As though you've got the power to control everything. As though the fate of the galaxy rests solely in your hands. Think about it, Obi-Wan."

"I….!"

Bant huffed. "Better yet, cut off that_ ridiculous_ tangle of hair, put on a _shirt,_ and _meditate_ on it!"

"Well." He crossed his arms tightly. "It's good to see you, too."

Milky tears welled in the corners of the Mon Cal's eyes, and dribbled down salmon colored cheeks. "I'm so worried about Garen," she confessed, in her turn. "I'm sorry, Obi."

"I'm sorry, too," he offered in return, wincing slightly in anticipation of another scolding.

But Bant only nodded glumly, and made him a shallow bow, and cut the link.

* * *

_Origination 00'32'016' Jedi Temple Coruscant_

_Relay transmission - unregistered station_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_Calm yourself, brat. I have not returned to the Force; though, judging by the truncated report I have just gleaned from Medic Kellar,, you have been pursuing that dubious goal with characteristic fanaticism. Master Pertha and I shall linger at this hub for a half-cycle, in hopes of intercepting your next message, but we cannot stay much beyond that. The recruitment mission has been an unmitigated disaster; sectors that were once supportive of the Order have succumbed to suspicion and reticence. Three separate families refused to grant custody of their younglings. I confess to some worry about the dwindling numbers in the Temple crèche… in a time of burgeoning chaos, he galaxy needs more Jedi and not less. _

_We have collected some rare specimens for the arboretum and teaching gardens, however; one last detour seems in order before we return to Coruscant. But I too would rather discuss this matter in person. _

_Force keep you, young one ._

_-end transmission –_


	23. Chapter 23

**Legacy III**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

_Origination 56'98'140 Baroonda Minor substation_

_Encrypted shortburst protocol B_

_-begin transmission transcript—_

_For the love of…. Fine. I begin to suspect that this is a game, one of those farcical training exercises you inflicted upon me when I was a youngling, as a test of patience. _

_Even so, I am still sorry to have missed you… it's well within the allotted time. I can only conclude that you and Master Pertha have been dispatched on another urgent assignment… possibly to save some rare species of fungus from utter extinction? Wield your 'saber with care, Master – aggressive negotiations might lead to scandalous collateral damage in such a _ delicate_ situation._

_Comm when you are able; I may not be here much longer. Ah. In fact, there is Master Yoda now – on priority alpha channel. I must go._

_May the Force be with you._

_-end transmission-_

* * *

"To liberate slaves, your mandate was not."

"I am aware of that, Master." Obi-Wan faced down Yoda's holographic displeasure with studied Jedi composure. After all, he'd watched Qui-Gon Jinn commit the same unspeakable impudence countless times. He ought to be an expert – and yet, even at the convenient distance of so many thousand parsecs, the act of _brushing off_ the Grand Master's admonition took a herculean effort of courage.

One did not simply tell Yoda to go stick it in his ear.

The shimmering blue figure snorted and smacked its transparent cane against some hard object. "Qui-Gon's defiance I sense in you."

The young Knight bowed, respectfully, acknowledging the compliment.

"Very impressed with your actions, was Senator Palpatine of Naboo," the diminutive Jedi chuffed. "Currying favor in high circles, are you, Obi-Wan."

"I place no value on Senator Palpatine's opinion," he replied levelly. Whoever in the blazes this Palpatine was, he was a politician, and his esteem therefore of no account.

The tiny master all but growled. "Discussed at length this matter, the Council has. Recalled to Coruscant you are."

This was not so easy to countenance. Obi-Wan shifted uneasily, caught between the rock of obedience and the hard place presented by his own deep-rooted intuition: there was _more_ to be done, a task yet unaccomplished. "Yes, Master, but…"

"But?"

The old one's mien was terrible to behold, white and straggling hair wisping about his reticulated skull, trollish ears waggling, luminous eyes narrowed into fierce crescents, snub nose wrinkled in annoyance.

A fluid shift of tactics. "But I am loathe to leave Master Tinn short-handed."

The ancient Jedi was not fooled. His gimer stick came up, wavering vexedly at the holo-cam. "Do as you are told, you will," he snorted. "Return to Temple, you will, and present yourself before Council. Many questions have we to ask. Much to discuss. Of more importance than Rim Patrol."

Obi-Wan was experienced to know when he was defeated. He bowed. "Yes, Master. I will arrange a transport with due haste."

Yoda harrumphed triumphantly. "Sent an _escort _to fetch you, I have."

Oh. Blast it. "Yes, Master."

The Grand master snorted again, folding his clawed digits upon the gnarled stick. His ears twitched once more, before his mesmerizing image snapped into nothingness.

Obi-Wan released a pent breath. That had gone… well. Or not, depending on your point of view.

* * *

It took him precisely four minutes to pack his belongings into one simple travel case. He was minus one cloak and a set of tunics and tabards, and carried most his scant possessions on his person. A few spare garments, a grooming kit, and a datapad tossed atop the small pile completed the needful preparations. He stripped the single thermal blanket and mattress cover off his bunk and stuffed them in the laundry chute. Frowning, he smoothed the blanket on Torbb's cot with a sweep of the Force, and whisked a stray tumble of dust and long black hair into the 'cycler chute. The room, he decided, was now _acceptable._ He was done.

Knowing well that Yoda would have timed his message to anticipate the promised 'escort' by no more than a half- hour standard – so as to allow no time in which to formulate an escape strategy – he sat upon the cot's edge and rolled his river stone between thumb and forefinger. The polished mineral pulsed warm beneath his touch, a familiar meditative anchor after all these years.

His dreams were still disturbed, his daily communion with the Force unsettling. He had left something _behind, unaccomplished._ Missed a beat, overlooked a clue.

But what?

The absurd engineering installation undertaken by Raith Seinar? The origins of the gambling resort fraud they had discovered early in their tenure here? Something about the Federation blockade? The Paxellians? Zhoa's lizard? …The Sith? Surely he hadn't been _inattentive_ in that regard.

No answer rang out sonorous and clear. His stone remained warm, but exhibited no miraculous oracular powers. Patience was, of course, the key – but he was precious short on time.

"Kenobi." Torbb Bakk'ile's resonant voice filled the small cabin to overflowing. Her boldy cut features froze into stern disapproval as her gaze encompassed his packed case, the _tidy_ state of the room. "You're leaving," she frowned.

"Yes. I've been recalled to Coruscant."

One of the redoubtable Knight's broad hands rested upon her 'saber hilt. "_Mirrsshka,"_ she grumbled, pacing disconsolately across the tiny space and then back to the door.

Obi-Wan raised his brows. Torbb and he shared a certain comradely friendship, or understanding, but he had not expected his departure to inspire such a reaction.

"Just when I need you," the tall woman said. She folded her arms across a wide chest.

Curious, he gestured with one hand. "Your squadron – "

"This is different. "Her intense gaze came to rest upon him. "It's … complicated."

AH. He stood, intuition supplying the missing terms of this exchange. "You've located Uticus."

Torbb's eyes flashed with a fire that warned against further trespass. Then she dipped her head in a brief affirmative. "Yes. We've finally got a read on that tracker your Nautolan padawan placed on those shipping crates. And a routing sequence for the transaction with Republic trace credits."

Better and better. Excitement stirring beneath his ribs, he urged her on. "Yes?"

"Those funds were deposited into an anonymous Banking Guild account held under the name New Dawn. Mean anything to you?"

His grin was fierce. "Yes, it does. I should have known. And Uticus is smuggling for them, then?"

"It would appear so. He's on the move right now – traipsing through the Arkanis sector, probably heading for a non-Republic jurisdiction system for a black market auction. We can catch him there."

And seize his ship, his navigation records, his communications database – all vital leads to the nefarious and elusive seditionist organization styling itself New Dawn. At last.

"I won't take my squadron to do this," Torbb stated, flatly. "Uticus – I need to do this in person. It needs to be me."

He burned to ask, but their alliance was founded upon her implicit trust in his _discretion,_ his honor. He would respect her privacy.

"I'll come with you."

She smiled then, an alarming flash of white lighting up her stern visage. "I thought you were headed back to Temple?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, pulse quickening. It was outright _disobedience, _but his heart told him he was aimimg true. The Force chimed in accord. _Go, go, go… retrace your steps, turn back and look again…_

Abruptly, he knew where they were headed. "He's going to Tatooine," he blurted, certain as any doomsday prophet, boundlessly confident.

Torbb slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to overbalance him had he not braced for it. "I am in your debt, brother." And then she was sweeping out, to make ready.

Obi-Wan drew a hand over his face. Yoda was going to _flay_ him for this.

But he would do what he must.

* * *

Saesee Tinn's squadron was presently out on patrol; Torbb was therefore, technically, senior ranking officer and temporarily in charge. The deck crew prepared a shuttle for her personal use without any question or need to seek further clearance.

Obi-Wan tossed his bag into the aft hold – a cramped cabin behind the cockpit, large enough to accommodate one inset bunk and an emergency med kit – and made a small private pilgrimage of his own while the mech droids fueled up their shuttle.

It would be uncivilized to leave without so much as a goodbye.

RG53 was snug in his own recharge unit against the far wall, engrossed in what appeared to be the cybernetic counterpart of a meditative trance. The young Jedi hesitated fractionally, ingrained training forbidding him to _disturb_ a fellow deep in contemplation – and then he reminded himself that the astromech was, when all was said and done – just a _droid._

"Hello there," he addressed the comatose mech-bot.

It stirred back to wakefulness with many a curt blip and curious tweedle, domed head spinning in place.

"It has been … a memorable experience to fly with you," he said, diplomatically. "I'm off now."

If the ensuing string of whistles and bleeps bore a distinctly relieved cadence, he chose to ignore this.

"May the Force be with you." Technically, the Force could not be with a chunk of circuitry, but a copilot, however humble, deserved the courtesy of a proper farewell.

The astromech sent him on his way with a low, undulating whistle and promptly went back to sleep.

"Hm." He was upon the point of coming Torbb – who had disappeared into the storage bay on some inscrutable errand of her own – when the warning klaxons heralded the arrival of a new ship. The newcomer was another beast of burden diplomatic shuttle, bearing the Order's insignia upon its hull. It skimmed through the magcon barrier at a conservative speed, turned carefully upon its axis, and engaged repulsors, lowering to the decks with a placid and unhurried grace.

The escort. Obi-Wan quashed an irrational urge to disappear like a truant youngling. He would simply tell whomever Yoda had sent that his services would not be required, thank you.

Shoving hands into opposite sleeves and rocking back on his heels, he watched the ramp hiss open and the pressure valves release copious jets of steam. The interior was dimly lit; a robed figure briefly appeared in silhouette and then creaked his way down the incline, Force-levitating a double reinforced bio-crate before him.

Obi-Wan broke into an amused smile. "Master Pertha!" He hurried forward to render assistance as the ungainly box wobbled in mid-air.

"Kenobi!" the doddering Togruta master beamed. "Excellent, don't jostle these beauties, now – you'll never guess what we've found."

"Not _micohastae veniferosi?"_ the young Knight inquired, trepidation ghosting over his features.

"No, no, much better than that – but no, I shan't tell! It will be a wonderful surprise for the whole Temple – just be a good lad, set this over there, good… I'll nip back in and fetch the other specimens…"

A rich chuckle sounded behind him as he painstakingly relocated the crate to its new home. Releasing his invisible grasp on the heavy object, Obi-Wan turned in surprise and ill-concealed delight.

"Master!"

Qui-Gon Jinn strode down the shuttle's ramp in three fluid paces, long cloak billowing at his heels. "I told you we had but one last detour to make. Master Yoda was most insistent."

They stood an arm's width apart, searching one another's faces as though to read the past months written thereupon. "He can be very insistent, when the mood strikes him."

The tall man glanced sideways to their elderly Togruta colleague. "And Master Pertha wishes to use the lab equipment here to conduct a bit of research before he returns to Coruscant, so…"

"You're free to enforce the Council's wishes."

The older man's eyes crinkled at the corners. "It is a _peculiar_ role for me to play," he admitted.

"You'll be happy to know, then, that you shan't have to."

They walked side by side, toward the interior entrance and the storage bays. The Jedi master's hand rose, of its own accord, and settled momentarily upon his companion's shoulder. "I told him you would require no such external _persuasion –"_

"That's not what I mean, Master. I'm not going back to Coruscant. Not yet."

A full halt. Alarm, or perhaps wild hope, kindled behind Qui-Gon's grey eyes as he searched his former student's face. "What?"

Obi-Wan held his gaze steadily. "I, too , must make one small detour. I've agreed to help Torbb Bakk'ile settle a .. personal matter. And… I think I need to go back. To Tatooine."

The maverick Jedi held him firmly by either shoulder, initial unease blossoming into a kind of melting pride. "You're defying the Council, in favor of instinct and the Force's guidance."

Obi-Wan flinched. "I wish you wouldn't put it _quite_ that way."

The tall man's mouth quirked at the corners. "I _told you_ this patrol mission would be good for you."

An exasperated sigh. "Qui-Gon."

The elder of the pair turned him round and set them on their way again. "I will accompany you, of course."

"I would not ask you to share in my-"

"I am not waiting for your invitation."

"Master." They stopped again, upon the threshold of the storage bay. Obi-Wan looked up at his former mentor, words of reprimand or objection dying upon his lips. There was no point in arguing with the infamous rogue, anyway, as he should know- better than any person alive. He released a long breath and smiled, letting his own pleasure at the offer spill over attenuated shields. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. And… Knight Bakk'ile, I believe?"

Torbb, accosted unexpectedly by the legendary Master Jinn, proved herself made of stern stuff. She stood eye to eye with the Order's most controversial figure and merely dipped her head in a graceful display of respect. "I am honored."

"We've added another mission partner," Obi-Wan informed her, bluntly.

The towering woman sized Qui-Gon up in one swiftly assessing glance and bowed low. "My thanks." And then strode onward, long stride eating up the deck. "I'll prime the thrusters and the navcomp." She disappeared into the waiting shuttle's hull.

Mech droids retreated to the corners of the hangar; ready lights blinked along the docking guides.

Qui-Gon held out a hand. "Shall we? Knight Bakk'ile is a competent pilot, I feel sure. And you and I have a great deal of _catching up_ to do."

The hatchway gaped alluringly open; already the shuttle's preliminary drives were thrumming with the promise of a fateful journey. "Speak for yourself, Master – we don't _all_ have trouble keeping up with the younger generation."

Fleet as lightning, the Jedi master seized his friend's luxurious nerf-tail – in lieu of a padawan's braid - and bestowed upon it a punishing yank. "Brat," he chuckled, jogging up the ramp and into the cool interior. "…Coming? I thought you were able to _keep up_ with me these days."

"I've got your back," the young Knight grumbled, following a scant pace behind.

The ramp sealed with a hiss of pistons; the shuttle executed a graceful pirouette; they blasted through the magcon barrier into the star-fretted beyond, over the future's swift-turning horizon, toward the precarious and subtle tipping-point of destiny.

**_End Book III._**

_**Story to be continued in this book's immediate sequel, Legacy IV.**_


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